


Twelve Arches Facing the Sea

by MajorEnglishEsquire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Demon Dean, Hellhounds, Illnesses, Injury, M/M, Mark of Cain, Season/Series 09, Self-Harm, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 43,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2094555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Cas says anything else, Dean can't hear it. There's a hand over his face, a wetness at his mouth, and the volcano's deafening silence rushing through his head like pyroclastic flow, like a landslide rolling over everything in sight and drowning it in death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 100

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place directly after [09.23 Do You Believe in Miracles?](http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=9.23_Do_You_Believe_in_Miracles%3F) Does not include use of any Season 10 summer spoilers.
> 
> **Warnings for self-harm, hellhound violence, blood, guts, and illness including vomiting.**
> 
> Major character death is not a member of TFW, but still a major character.
> 
> I do not own the rights to these characters, the setting, the show, etc. No harm is intended.

First instinct says: _get out_.

The echo of Crowley's voice and the lingering, just-popped-out smell of sulfur speaks of a threat.

His body sits up in bed and before his second boot hits the floor everything has changed.

Dean stills completely. Cocks his head to hear.

Not hear, maybe.  
Sense? To the left and below. Something that speaks of Sam.  
Sam alive and well, if distressed.

Dean is dead.

He holds the First Blade against his chest and this isn't like the other deaths. Not like the other rebirths, either. Painful in a different way from how his form rattled and shook and was turned by vampire blood.

He knows where he has been stabbed, feels the great big hole in the center of him, but it doesn't... connect to how he _is_ at all. Physical pain is not the issue. This is spirit-deep; this is like alcohol turned inside-out. The numbness goes to the wrong places, as does the heat, the anger.

The instinct for flight rises again. It grows like his awareness, now, and he can almost see himself from above.

He can know what he is, what's finally happened to him, can _watch it_ as if detached from himself.

Dean shouldn't be near Sam. He can't expose himself to Sam. He can't-- endanger him.

Dean is decay, now. He took the last few steps towards the limits he first tested in Hell. He has become, in soul, what Alistair shaped in body.

This rebirth is like the one from Hell, from his grave, and it is also _not_.

The palm print that burned on his shoulder was fresh. It stung.  
The mark on his forearm stopped stinging a long time ago. It's so deep it feels like he could see the imprint of it on the other side of his arm if he looked.

He has the blade. His gun is not on him, or his wallet. His flannel, but not his jacket.

His room.

He looks at his room.  
He looks at his room in his home.

An unexpected wind of rage is what seems to sweep him from it.

«»

He falls because he wasn't standing when his body decided to move. He falls from the sit he was in on the edge of his bed.

Dean hits the blood-covered concrete in the basement of the abandoned facility where he had died.

He shakes out his wrist. The impact of falling back on it should have injured it more. He felt the hit but nothing snapped. That's good.

How the fuck did he get here?

The blade is still in his hand and he-  
Was thinking about having to leave his home. Leave the place he'd settled in so carefully, stowed his few belongings in and called sanctuary.

The idea of leaving it made him want to set it on fire.

That image, the fire, the bunker billowing black smoke from a hole in the ground, Sam coughing until--

The fire he imagines is now curling around all the nerves in him, climbing up his spine and making a home in the base of his skull. It knows him, now. Like being what he was before was just practice. Like his skin without the Mark was just a vessel and _this_ is his true self.

The drive back home must have taken Sam a while. What blood remains on the floor here has either pooled in a small dip near a drain, or dried.

Dean approaches the wall he'd fallen against, where Metatron stabbed him.

He stands in the black stain of his own blood.

He can smell (?) who once stood here. Can smell the humans-- the homeless still huddled above.

The faint trace of energy he thinks he can smell is innately disturbing. Must be angelic, must be Metatron's holier-than-thou stink. The trace of Sam in this place is almost completely absent. If he hadn't been so close to it all his life, he might not ever have known Sam had stood there.

Or, you know. If he hadn't been there himself.  
Telling Sam it was better that he die.

He shoves the blade hilt in his pocket.

He wants to look at his wrists. He looks down, follows his fingers to his palms to his wrists. His blood is dried here, too. And doesn't feel tacky or flaky like he expects. He observes it. Observes himself, how he forces his fingers to function, can make them bend, one-two-three-four-thumb, into his palms. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow but he doesn't follow his veins up to the--

Dean is dead. He knows himself to be dead.

His shirts are covered in blood. He reeks of his death.

The hole in his t-shirt is laughably small. The blade sunk into him, through his skin and muscle and organs, the way eased by the slide of blood, excruciating in its depth but, here, a very simple action when recalled.

Tab A into slot B. Dead Dean.

Dean sticks his finger in the hole in his shirt. It disappears into the black material and hits solid skin. He can feel the texture of a callous and dried blood. His body zipping back together already. Magic healing.

Like a goddamn fucking demon.

He is covered in blood. He has no idea where to go or how he got himself here. He doesn't know how zapping works. What, does he close his eyes, click his heels? What?

Every step and shuffle echoes in this huge, empty space. His boots released from the tack of old blood or hushing over grit and dirt.

If he should do anything, now, if he's still got the blade and the power to use it, then he should finish off Metatron. He doesn't remember getting out of here. Doesn't know how Sam got past the worshippers in the homeless camp. Could be they still know where Marv is.

Dean tosses the edge of his flannel shirt over the blade where it sits in his pocket and tries to pull the shirt closed over his black tee. There's no real way not to look like a mess. Maybe he can steal a jacket from one of them when he--

The next step he takes he's suddenly in another place again.

"Ah," says Crowley. "There you are."

Dean turns and the factory floor is no longer behind him. There's the smell of herbs and minerals burning. It looks like he's in a... house? Or office?

Crowley stands over a bowl and a scribbled set of sigils.

"Did--" Dean can't even say it.

"Did I just summon you?" Crowley supplies. "Yes. One of the new perks is..." Crowley smiles, shit-eating, and shrugs, palms up, "you can't hide from me."

"What the fuck is going on," it comes out more wondering and lost than the demand Dean had intended.

Crowley slumps and looks slightly too-old all of a sudden. "Christ. You _would_ need everything explained to you."

He circles from around the table to stand in front of Dean and Dean draws his blade.

"We're not doing that, first of all," Crowley clenches a fist and Dean feels his hand drop the First Blade to the plush carpet below. His spine slams straight and his hands flat to his sides. He's held to attention by some invisible force.

"Not a full-blown knight yet," Crowley tsks. "Pity. Well. No one has to know." He circles Dean once, as if inspecting him. When he comes back into view he nods, as if in approval. "As your King, I think you understand that I now hold certain... _privileges_ over you. You work for me now."

Dean tries to curse, tries to say anything. Nothing is allowed past his teeth.

"Oh, I know," he mimics sympathy, "Don't worry, Dean, you won't feel that way for long." Crowley reaches out and ghosts a thumb over the Mark of Cain. "You have a new set of eyes. They'll see this world for what it really is. You woke into this life with them. Would you like to see through them now?" It's not actually an offer. Crowley lifts his hand in front of Dean's face. "Let's peel that pretty green back and get you settled into something darker."

Crowley's hand touches his face for a short moment, then falls away.

The world is almost as it was, but the dark corners have more definition. The beacons, the smells-- pings in his mind that tell him where humans and demons walk or have walked, are fresher. Crowley has been in this place for several hours, if not days. Dean sees his presence like disturbances in the forest. Not like footprints but in the way that the shadows feel owned, lived-in, well worn. The way furniture and carpet and different items have been recently touched and moved.

Dean's eyes tick over to Crowley's face. He's more prepared for this than he might have expected. The real face, below the vessel, is red and pulsing and hideous. He wants his old eyes back. He knows when the black slips away he won't have to see the commanding, gruesome display anymore. He's seen demon faces before. Ruby was ugly, awful.

She had nothing on Crowley. He looks like some sort of abomination that had some of its pieces burned off. Like the bare, stripped-off insides of a monster-- like if a wendigo were walking around without skin to live in, and with chunks of it charred off.

Dean suddenly wonders what parts of Crowley might have changed since he started shooting human blood. He wonders if there's a noticeable difference to how he was before. The demons--

Other demons. The other demons would have seen it and that would have built doubts about his reign, if pieces of him started to seem less disgusting or something.

Dean's unable to talk. Can't ask or insult.

Crowley's veiny, charred hand reaches to him again and takes his arm, pulls it into his vision.

Dean has a view of his hand. Can trail his eyes as far down his arm as the crook of his elbow. And the Mark of Cain.

His arm disintegrates. From the fingers and hand of a human, his veins and bones light up to the place where the Mark sits on his arm. The 'F' shape of it glows white hot while the flesh under it is black, shot through with burning orange. Like his arm were made of lava, crusting over and still scorching under the surface.

Crowley doesn't make him look at himself further. Doesn't bother shoving him in front of a mirror like Dean expects. He clicks his fingers and Dean feels his bones released from their King's command.

"Fuck," Dean hisses and the next blink brings his sight back to what it was.

"You can marvel at your new world on your own time. We've strategy to discuss." With a gesture, Crowley moves a chair out in front of the massive oak desk in the center of the room. He moves aside the summoning bowl and sits down on the other side.

"I'm not yours to strategize with," Dean barks at him.

"Ah. I think you'll find that's not true. Sit," he demands. It's not a _command_ because Dean still stands there, body leaning toward the one door he can see. Crowley raises an eyebrow like, _are we really gonna do this_. He taps the bowl sitting on the desk. "I'm betting you don't know how to 'zap' off on command yet. And if you did, I'd just bring you back in. I've got you on speed dial, now. One little match and," he tah-dah!s toward Dean, another slimy, self-congratulatory smile.

No matter where Dean goes, Crowley will now be able to summon him back to heel.

"Sam will look for me," Dean says, like a threat.

"You're dead, mate. He summoned me to get a deal. I told him it was out of my hands. Said your angel had likely already escorted you heavenward. Considering our dear Cas is, thus far, incommunicado, I'm not yet concerned. It'll probably take ages for your delightful, dim-witted giraffe to come out of his mourning stupor long enough to figure it out. And by then, well."

Crowley just leaves it at that, with a shrug.

"By then, what?" Dean demands.

Crowley shakes a finger at him and smiles. "You're gonna like this. You're really gonna like this. You just need to give it some time. Settle in. You're functionally immortal, now. And the closer you come to knighthood, the more indestructible you'll be. So work with me for a while and then," he shrugs again, "who knows. Maybe you'll be out-hunting your old self. A better Winchester than yourself and your brother combined."

"Hunting?" is all Dean can really pick out of that. The concept of immortality is laughable. Every time he comes up against it, it's false, or fallible in some way. But hunting? Killing? It sweeps the other things from his mind. Cas and Metatron and even Sam, somehow. Nothing to be done about Sam, after all. He thinks it's got to be better for Sam to believe he's dead than that's he's... _this_.

Hunting.

"That's what I said, yes. Have a seat?"

The moment he finally tries to act on knowledge as opposed to instinct is the moment the Mark speaks up again.

'Hunting' appeals to it. Killing appeals to the Mark. It knows what it wants and Dean is spinning right now, directionless. The Mark knows where to go. It wants to tune in, hear what Crowley has to say. Dean is still not ready for this, Dean is still ready for death, for this to be over. The Mark tells Dean to wait. The Mark has a plan.

The Mark of Cain sits Dean down in the chair across from Crowley.

"Hunting," he says again, like he can't focus on anything else.

And really? He can't.

Crowley smiles. "You'll keep hunting demons. You'll be hunting Abaddon's loyalists. I've still got an uprising to crush. Sending my own Knight after her pets is going to scare the piss out of them. Finding out you're, well, _you?_ There won't be a dry set of knickers in her army." Crowley pauses to consider that. "For one reason or another. You are a handsome devil, after all."

Dean scowls.  
But stays.

The bowl sits between them. The bowl of blood and bone and chalk and herb that will summon Dean any time Crowley wants him.

He's working for the bastard again.

There's a bright side.

(A fucking _bright side_. Unbelievable.)

He gets to keep killing demons.

«»

Crowley picks the blade up off the carpet and Dean is sent out to hunt.

He's stuck with two demons to "attend" him, per their King's orders. Dean is supposed to do the hunting but the hands-on work, the dirty, petty work is supposed to be beneath him. As a Knight of Hell, that is.

They're big fuckers, Bob and Tom or something. Dean never really stops to learn their names.

On the first hunt, his biggest asset is the fact that Dean's still covered in his own gore. When the three of them show up at the door, Dean's got his blade drawn. When they barge in and his eyes set sights on his targets, he feels them flash to black, sees the hideous demon souls in the room, and burns with the need to get this over with, to get on with the killing.

The targets are goddamn _terrified_.

Tom (or whoever) is killed in the fight. Dean demands that Bob (or whatever his name is) remove his jacket after the fight, as they're looking down at their work, kicking corpses and checking for signs of life. Bob (maybe) knows his orders, hands over the jacket without question, and Dean slips into it before stabbing Bob (well, not anymore) in the back.

Dean rides the feeling of those bodies collapsing beneath his power. He feels it. Feels how powerful he is. Feels the strength as if it were a long road inside of him, under construction. The gravel path he once beat his way down is nothing to him anymore. Soon he is hot asphalt, poured over the rolled-out ground. And it feels good. He can open his eyes to black and look down at his hands, his arms. See the lava-like light inside of himself.

Alone now, without enemies or handlers, he practices moving across the room he's in. Then across the building. Then from the building out to the parking lot.

It's a lot like being a spirit. Anger is what moves you. He's got a lot of rage he can tap into at any given moment. He just closes his eyes, seeks the radiance of the Mark, feels what it wants, and _flies_.

Once he successfully zaps from the parking lot in Dubuque to a bus stop in Ankeny, he thinks he has a handle on it. He could use some more practice, wants to attempt to flash to a place he hasn't even been to before just to see if it will work.

But first he tugs the new jacket around himself, digs in the pockets. Finds a cell phone and a wallet. He crosses the street and tosses the drivers license into a mailbox slot in an apartment building without looking at it. He uses the $56 cash to buy a new shirt and pants. Then he gets back to working on his zapping. He makes it almost two whole hours before the cell phone rings. He thinks about throwing it at the side of the building he's glaring at and it only makes his eyes flash to black.

The cell phone is hard to look at when that happens. He tries to be mindful of it, tries to make the black recede, but the jingly little tune of the cell phone doesn't help him embrace fucking _peace_ or anything.

Once it's quieted, he can look at the missed calls.

**Boss**

Crowley, then. Dean does end up whipping the cell phone at the brick wall so hard it nearly turns to dust.

He gets another four minutes to practice his zapping before he's back in Crowley's office in a chokehold.

"So," he begins casually, like Dean's just gonna survive all his air being cut off. "I see you and Allen have the same taste in leather outerwear. I'm sure you got along swimmingly before you shivved him in the spine."

Allen was Bob's name. Great. He tries not to remember there was a different name on the credit cards in the wallet. He wasn't supposed to have noticed. He always tried not to when stealing wallets just to survive.

Dean realizes Crowley can just keep choking him forever. He was going through the motions, still, but air was never really getting to his lungs. So he hangs there while Crowley explains.

Dean can pop every assistant Crowley sends him out with, but at the end of the day, more will arrive. He sent him out with two, next time it will be three. Four if he fucks up further. Then five. He'll have a whole team of handlers if that's what it takes. Crowley's got a reputation to restore.

"And having your _dazzling_ new looks and pristine countenance is key. Kill all the meatheads you like," Crowley offers. "I'll send you with more, and the more you kill, the more you become exactly what I need you to be."

The hot rock solidifying under Dean's skin is a testament to that. He'll become exactly the threat Crowley needs. Unless he kills more assistants than Crowley has to send. Unless he powers through enough demons that he can empty Hell out from the inside.

And after killing how many of them will he be powerful enough to resist this? Hanging in the air with an invisible vice on his windpipe. When will he be a knight, a real knight? When will he be a threat to Crowley? How long will it take?

How much killing is left for him to do until he's powerful enough to kill Crowley?

He nods. He's nodding to himself but Crowley thinks he's agreeing. He just keeps nodding.

That's what he'll wait for. For the lanes to be painted and the sun to crack split the bleached asphalt. For the road within him to pave the way, Highway to Hell, destination: kill this asshole.

And close the gates behind himself.

Crowley invites Dean to sit once more if he's going to be agreeable and civil.

They have strategy sessions.

Dean kills half his attendants every time they make a run.

Crowley frowns at him in disapproval, but never sends him out with more than four other demons. He only ever gets more when Dean has to delegate smaller tasks.

In a week, they've run out of brazen Abaddon supporters to strike down. Now comes the real hunting. The planning. Grabbing guys who will know where loyalists are lying low.

Dean hasn't had to take part in interrogations yet.

He knows that, when he does, he will kill the demons strapped down for him. He will do it outright and before he can torture them for the information Crowley wants. Crowley must know this too, and doesn't trust him.

That's a good move on his part.

Dean steps up. Takes the lead on the next hunt by himself. He tries to make it look like he has total control. He accepts a new cell phone and says he'll report in.

What he needs is _time_.

«»

Crowley's not gonna summon Dean for a while. He's used to having lackeys with shit for brains who take a whole day to prep for an ambush that takes Dean 30 minutes plus a little noontime recon. He's waiting for the heat of the day, the height of the lunch crowd, to blend in with all the people passing and window-shopping on the street. He'll case the place looking like anyone else there and-- well, if not anyone else, then just a hunter curious about the small sigil in the window.

The rage simmers down low, now. The need to kill doesn't burn so hot since the last couple missions. He offed several demons on the last hunt he just finished. He's settling into his image. The demons who work around him are wary. As they should be.

And he starts to think about that image. The way he's projecting himself to the peons Crowley intends to keep his thumb on.

He passes shops on the street slowly, keeping his eyes in a casual sweep. He avoids letting his eyes go black. When he does that out in the world, he tends to see things he doesn't want to. They're disappearing faster, but the world is still teeming with souls that Dean can see when his eyes look through dimensions. The reapers must be doing their jobs again, but there are still so many. He can't look. Can't listen.

Often, they sound as angry as Dean is. A world full of poltergeists waiting to happen. He can smell them, sometimes too. Use that extra sense. But his extra sight is… not yet honed. Unreliable. Sometimes doesn't work at all. Maybe it's a new-demon thing. Maybe he's not everything Cain thought he was.

Anyway. Crowley won't answer him when he asks and his subordinates have little information. The angels are missing again. No one's heard about Marv or Metatron. When Dean thinks about it too much, when he starts planning to do something, he's summoned. Or sent on another hunt. Or the blood calls in his ears and the Mark demands a kill. And he can't take the time to care about it. He's thinking about other things less and less.

His reflection in the windows he passes show him mostly the same thing he's always seen: dirt pounded into the knees of his jeans, blood on the collar of his jacket, slightly matted hair, a beat-up and haggard appearance overall.

There are still wounds healing on his face from the last fight, but they'll be gone soon. More than anything, sunglasses would make him look like he's concealing two black eyes like some kind of coward. He is used to wearing both his good looks and his good hits with his chin up. So he controls the rage and keeps the black from taking over his eyes.

The key here is that he still looks like a hunter. He looks like he did when he thought he was saving people, like he was some goddamn champion of the human race.

He's not that, anymore. He's not human and he's nobody's savior. Except Crowley's.

Crowley's attack dog, more like. And he looks the part. He looks mangy and bloodstained.

He's not about to go home. He doesn't know how it will feel being there. He doesn't know how _he_ will feel if Sam is there, trying to reach Cas or packing the place up and disappearing again.

But Dean could use a shower. Some little product in his hair, and... one of his good suits.

He takes in his reflection in the window of a Starbucks before turning down a side alley.

Dean realizes that he's not utilizing all his resources. He saw a Target and a CVS. He could grab some things, not even pay, just pop in and out. Soap, shampoo--

But why shop where any old schmuck shops? Why not that boutique he passed a few minutes ago? They'd had some men's products in the window. It had smelled floral and sweet when the door wooshed open in front of him.

Dean closes his eyes and focuses.  
And he's in the corner of the shop, by the window.

He looks around quickly to see if anyone noticed. There's a person standing very still in front of the window, but when he turns his eyes on the old woman, she startles, almost hopping, and then trots off down the street, checking over her shoulder, probably hoping he doesn't follow her.

Dean smirks. No one in the shop noticed. It's a small place and the only clerk on the floor right now has her back turned, individually wrapping soaps in tissue paper with pretentious little bows on top.

So, Dean wanders until he hits a few smells that really intrigue him. He picks up and sniffs some of the products, glances at the labels. There are all-natural options and... well, upscale options. He doesn't bother reading the prices. At one point, when he drifts close, the clerk turns and startles.

"Oh, sorry. Sorry! I didn't hear you come in! Is there-- is there anything I can help you with, today? Are you looking for anything specific?"

Dean only gives her the barest of smiles and waves her off. "I'm good. Thanks."

"Well, lemme know," she offers, before turning back to label the bars.

Dean casts a wide net. He looks through all the products, no matter if they're packaged for men or women. There are things that smell really off-putting and others that contain herbs he thinks might actually be harmful now that he's... another species.

He sniffs around for citrusy, dark, spicy smells. Shampoos and soaps and style products and things. When he's got a few stacked up in his hands, he ducks around the side of a display, out of the line of sight of the CCTV and the clerk, and he closes his eyes again. He concentrates. He thinks he might know where to go next.

There was a gym on the other side of town--

No, fuck that. He stops himself, takes a deep breath, and focuses instead on the fancy hotel he'd seen earlier.

He lands with a clatter. He's in a hallway, doors and doors and doors and a brass-colored elevator. A nice table with a plant spilling well-tended leaves over its top.

Okay. Alright. He'd dropped some of the little containers he'd been carrying when he landed. He grabs them off the plush carpet and stuffs them in his pockets. He listens at a nearby door. He thinks he hears a television.

Or is that across the hall?

Great. What, does he go look at the check-in computer?

Better idea: he zaps to the top floor.

The doors are fewer and further between up here. Suites.

It's all quiet. There's the remains of breakfast and dregs of coffee on a room service tray outside one door. A do-not-disturb card two doors down.

The rich folks probably get their pick of views and like to have their space. He chooses a room that has a view of nothing in particular, between two other rooms that are clearly occupied, and knocks on the door. After a minute, no one answers.

He could just push the door in. He's powerful enough that everyday locks mean nothing to him anymore. Instead, he stands still, focuses, and blinks.

And he's inside the room.

On quiet hunter's feet he slinks around the wide suite and finds no evidence that the room has had an occupant. It's well before check-in and the place has already been tended by the staff, the sheets folded perfectly and everything sparkling.

He's got a while.

He flips on the light in the spacious bathroom and looks around. Big, wide shower. Nice. The products from the boutique all get left on the counter next to the sink.

There's a fancy looking coffeemaker in the kitchenette. He sets it up with one of the samples from the complimentary tray of teas and coffees and sugars and creamer packets. While it chugs away, he tosses off his bloodied jacket--

And pauses. He looks down at himself. The last thing he wants to do after getting cleaned up is to get back into the junky old clothes he bought a few weeks ago.

Now that he knows where this room is, and that there's a couple hours until he's got to do his work on the street, he can blink his way back to it easily. He's sure of it.

He pulls the jacket back on and thinks.

So, he'll go to a mall, grab some shirts and jeans off the rack-- and then, after he's done with his scouting for the mission...

Right. Yes.

The coffee's ready by the time he gets back. He loads it up with cream and sugar and tries to indulge in the vanilla blend from the fancy machine.

It does nothing for him. It's coffee. He chugs it hot and tosses the mug into the sink.

He strips and showers. Takes his time. Lets the steam sink into him. Opens the soap and lathers the orange scent of it into his skin until he can't smell the days-old blood or a trace of sulfur. He shaves. Takes care of himself. Styles his hair. He looks fresh and clean in the mirror. Mostly put-together and sharp. He runs his fingers over the Mark. He scrubs them over it until he really feels it, feels it in his skin.

His attention is drawn to his chest. There are imperfections in the tattoo there, breaking the lines of it. Like the ink is boiling right out of his skin.

It's burning off because of the heat inside, he thinks.

He shrugs on those freshly-stolen clothes.

Casing the target building is the work of only a few minutes. He doesn't blink his way around it. He strolls, makes it look like he's really intent upon shopping. In fact, he follows a family into the store, stays on their heels, and exits again when he's gathered all he needs to know about the layout and taken a glimpse into the back room.

He keeps walking as he leaves the rebels' storefront. Just moseys on down the street.

To a tailor.

«»

The mission lasts longer than expected, so he takes the initiative to check in. Crowley is smug. Just his voice on the phone is fucking _smug_ and enraging.

After the call, he inadvertently throws someone without touching them for the first time. He's so pissed that he's becoming as strong as Crowley hoped for that he even pins the demon to the wall and chokes him out from afar like Darth fucking Vader. The other assistants watch on in uncomfortable silence.

When it's time to make the grab for their target, another day has passed.

Long enough.

He sends the demons back to Crowley with their hostage.

Crowley's getting something he wants. It's enough of a distraction. Dean has a half hour, maybe.

He returns to the tailor.

They greet him warmly. He thought about stealing more cash to pay the guy off. He was super attentive, explaining the different suit cuts and accoutrements, the color combinations and fits.

Dean hasn't completely lost his ingrained sympathy for good, hard-working, common folks.

He just can't care right now.

When the tailor excuses himself so Dean can try out the total fit of a complete suit, Dean gathers all his new wardrobe up in his arms, closes his eyes, and zaps off.

He'll find a better place. He'll have to. But he goes somewhere he once had to stash the Impala. He changes into one new outfit and stores the rest away.

He doesn't wait for Crowley's summons. He waits in Crowley's _office_.

«»

When the King enters, he pauses.

Dean lounges in his spot, the chair across the desk from Crowley's traditional seat.

Dean's decked out in a seriously fitting suit. No wrinkling, no bunching, all lines. Jacket tight to the shoulders, no slack to it, drawn in just enough toward his middle. It's got none of the simple squareness that his old FBI suits used to have, it's closer-cut-- closer all over, really. He's got nothing to hide about his body. He doesn't think of himself that way anymore, as someone with a burgeoning late-life beer gut and temperamental weight. He doesn't pound back burgers and bourbons anymore. All his mass is a killer's mass.

It's in the solid line of his neck, now completely unobstructed by scruff and sporting the clean lines of a tight new haircut. His neck collared by simple black lines, the blocks of his shoulders, the sharp angles of the lapel that looks smooth to the touch, and the black tie descending from the crisp edges of the shirt collar. It's black-on-black-on-black. Spare cut of the expert tailoring generous with his hunter's body where his lack of confidence once pillowed him in bulky layers. His center is straight and thick and fitter than expected, if not perfectly, super-heroically compact and triangular from the shoulders.

He is a pillar instead, and casual, at rest but still erect in the seat, hands draped over the arms of the chair, unclenched, wrists just visible below the sleeves. One knee thrown over the other, long-toed boots finally giving his legs the credit they didn't get in his brother's shadow: it is impossible not to compare them when together and in person. But without Sam at his side, Dean is a tall and terrifying thing. There will be no drag or excess in the lines of his legs with the close cut of his trousers. The color of the outfit in the dull glow of the fireplace and the casual toss of his crossed legs hides completely the weight and power packed in them, his thighs, used to running, _bolting_ , hard impacts at the knees. Low, patient crouches, unflinching atop windy buildings, staring down the sights of a high-powered weapon at some beast on the move.

Crowley likes the look of it immediately and, for it, also instantly distrusts it.

His bad, bad little Knight is growing into his power faster than anticipated.

Crowley closes the office door quietly behind himself and indulges in a longer look. It really is a fine human form. He's thought about riding that mouth more than once, just to silence the oaf, but here he can imagine peeling those finely-tailored layers and watching Dean reveal himself like it was his job.

He could order him to do it.

He thinks to himself.  
He could.

Dean blinks long and slow and finally nods a look up at Crowley like his head is loose on his neck. Like he's settling into his power as if it were a warm bath. There's a thigh-length coat thrown over the chair back. Leather gloves in the pocket and everything.

He certainly consulted a professional or two.

"Someone should have told you all black makes it look like you're tending to a casket. Or shall I call you Draco Malfoy?"

Dean doesn't rise to it or dismiss it. It just is.

Notably, his eyes don't match his wardrobe. He doesn't seem to do that unless he's on the clock.

_Ought to put him on the clock._

Crowley crosses the office to pour a glass and sit behind his desk. "Not what I had pictured for you, really. I had more a vision of you swathed in blood-soaked leather and plaid. Something a little more true-to-self."

Dean's eyes dip and then side to Crowley again, empty of commentary.

"But this is fine," he pokes in his glass, removes an unsatisfactory shard of ice, tosses it behind him, into the fireplace. "Very professional of you. It's progress. And on such an occasion, I think, perhaps, to discuss knightly business."

"Who next?"  
Dean asks who he's set to kill almost as if it bores him.

Crowley settles in his chair, leans back. "You're gonna holster the blade. I need you to perform a different trick. I need information, not just piles of bodies. You do remember _information_ , don't you? The research in the hunting. Laying out your maps and... routes and... whatever." He sips. "Abaddon, she had this lovely party trick. She'd smoke herself out of her vessel, just part-way, just for a peek into someone's mind."

Dean looks attentive, now. Listening.

"You slice a little bit of yourself away, stuff it into a witness' mouth, and there's no need for any of that FBI masquerading. You have a play-by-play of all that happened without the mess of testimony bias."

"Tell me how to do it."

Not an admission of ignorance. Just a demand. Not, 'I don't know how to do that,' or 'How am I supposed to do that?' He only wants his orders.

Perhaps Crowley's timeline for stamping out the anarchy and sedition really can be truncated.

"It may require lessons. It may require you show me those new eyes of yours and extend your gifts to their limits."

And so Dean merely rises, the whole murder-fueled mass of him, and his hands just barely move over himself to straighten an already pristine appearance, re-buttoning his jacket at the front as he stands. He faces Crowley, blinks his eyes over to match the rest of him, the inky reflective dark, and repeats: "Tell me how."

«»

He's around the office more. It's a great gauge for how he's received in the lower demonic ranks. The others shuffle out of his way, clear halls, swiftly exit rooms, everything short of saluting.

The dogs are another thing.

Hellhounds roam where they will on errands and out on assignments to drag down the souls who run out of time on their crossroads contracts.

The first time Dean sees a hellhound, he unleashes a vicious growl at it. It attempts to intimidate in kind.

" _Seriously?_ " Crowley tsks. It's only a pup, barely old enough to be useful let alone return a threat.

Dean's snappish and uncooperative for the rest of the day, lessons wasted.

They spend lots of time on it, though. Dean keeps coming back, post-mission, to study new tricks. To show off his work. And each time, it seems to Crowley that he's more comfortable in his demonic form. He acts more naturally. Plain and unperturbed. Focused. Further lessons get through to him. Crowley feels secure enough in his partial-possession capabilities to send him out into the field as a sharply-dressed "state's attorney," and let him sink his teeth into the minds of the human witnesses.

He keeps hellhounds around for giggles, too. Can't help himself. Sometimes he wants to watch Dean squirm.

Dean's also uncomfortable, to say the least, with the smoke that chokes out of him. He'd snapped the neck of the meat suit that had been his intended trial run, for laughing at him.

Fewer necks were snapped as he drew the breath out of himself with the vapor of hellfire, with the smoking in the slum-pit of his new form. He could see the fire under his skin with his eyes turned to black. Could easily envision a volcano underneath his skin, fueling the plume of smoke. That newly-paved road within him, fractured from a swell of molten rock. Crystallizing into black glass.

He can let go of his inner demon, let it stretch away from himself, the more he accepted that it was in there. That that's what he's made up of.

Before Dean's training is perfectly effective, he has to be sent back out into the field to track a straggling traitor. The bloodlust, courtesy of the Mark, also still wracks him with twitches and growls when not attended to. So, before he's quite ready, Crowley allows him that break. Lets him go have his gory fun. Tear something to bits to his heart's content.

The report from Crowley's subordinates is fascinating. Dean tried his knight trick, or, at least, attempted to smoke out and gather information, but couldn't force the demon to hold it in, so he didn't gather any new intel. Frustrated, he was at least free to let loose on the little bugger, make fingerpaint out of him, and reappeared before Crowley felt compelled to call him having maimed none of the rest, but sporting a new tailored suit. This one with subtle blue pinstripes and twilight dark accents.

Crowley invites him to one of the arcane libraries for a drink and his official debrief.

Dean doesn't settle in a chair this time. He wanders, reading titles -- or, trying to. Most of them are in languages even Crowley can't remember.

So he wanders, swirling his glass lightly for a while before he admits, "It almost worked."

"How do you mean?"

Dean doesn't hesitate visibly. He remains silent until he's ready to speak, stilted though it is.

"I might have seen. Bodies. Some people he'd destroyed. A couple hunters. It might have been. I donno. Filled in by my imagination. But there was definitely at least one scene. Like a snapshot. Of a place I'd never been and bodies of people I hadn't seen before."

Crowley sets aside his own empty tumbler and steeples his fingers. "Don't think anything of it," he instructs. "Don't push yourself on it yet. I'd give you some time off though, clearly-" here he motions to Dean's new look, "- you've had time enough to yourself between jobs. But I don't need you burning yourself out on this early."

"I don't burn out," Dean says, turning back to Crowley, like it's solid, acknowledged fact.

And, true, he hasn't rested since the change. Some demons need to. Often they even need sleep. Dean seems to get all the rest he needs while waiting on targets to appear or staking out the nests of assumed dissenters. He's contented himself on just that much for months now.

Crowley spreads his hands. "This is your new life. You ought to enjoy it. Women. Cars. Gambling. Cocaine lines drawn directly between two fake tits. This is _your time_ Dean. I want you to enjoy it. Tell me, truly, that there's nothing you haven't experienced that you want to now? Now that you're invulnerable? Powerful? Unstoppable?"

Dean turns and paces away, sipping the last of his drink.

"You know why I got up every morning? Even when my life was shit?"

Crowley kind of laughs. "I donno. Habit?"

Dean sets his glass down on a table and spins it, watching the ice swirl.

"I got up to hunt things. It's what I did well. It's what I wanted to do. I wanted to wipe scum off the earth." He turns. Meets Crowley's eyes.

"I like destroying things."

Intrigued, Crowley tries a new tack. "Anything you've never destroyed that you might like to? I've got a whole menagerie of despicable creatures packed away for future use. You could peel the pretty looks of a siren. There aren't exactly angels left to pluck the pearly feathers from, but I think I could pin down a phoenix for funsies," he smiles, imagining all the lovely things he'd personally like to defile.

Dean drops himself into a chair nearby, affecting a too-casual sprawl.

"There were some scumbags. Some hunters who tried to hunt me. Even though they were just as human as me. As I _was_."

"Compassion for your fellow man's all that kept them alive," Crowley nods. "But not so much anymore, eh?"

"Can't imagine it'll take long to find 'em."

"Could plant an article in a major circulating paper. Have hunters flocking to quash, oh... some kind of creepy-crawly. Some 'shifter or wolf in a major city?"

Dean nods. "That would do it."

Crowley shrugs. "'S done. I'll let you know when the piece goes to print. You'll have some shore leave. And a merry time rooting out your old pals. Let them hear you _howl_ a bit. That work for you?"

Dean smiles, sneering and dangerous, his new version of _pleased_.

"A few more lessons before then, I think. Then we'll give you 48 hours to have your fun." Crowley rises, pleased as well. "This is all working out quite nicely. And you? You're fitting in fantastically, Dean. Always knew you had it in you."

Dean's eyes narrow. "No you didn't."

"'Course I did. Knew this work of art had to be lurking somewhere under your cape and tights."

Dean doesn't snort like Crowley half expects. His eyes don't narrow again. He goes loose, compliant. Rises and straightens his suit. Leads the way to the 'classroom' where they'll work more on knight tricks.

Crowley follows, knowing he's going to have to put his second best man on his first best man for that 48 hours.

Dean saw dead hunters in that rebel's vision.

He saw hunters lying dead and now he wants to kill more.

Either this is Christmas or the little shit already has half his downfall plotted out.

«»

The article's planted in the Miami Herald. Which makes it very nearly useless.

Hunters don't go to Florida. Nobody floats there. Florida has very few dedicated hunters. No one else will fuck with it. It's too easy to collect News Of The Weird there and for that weirdness to turn out to be the heat or the meth or the wildlife or just the fact that a giant sandbar is a really stupid place to attempt to put down roots.

Only a few hunters from outside the state respond. The others are locals.

Crowley sends one of his most competent assistants that way to watch out for Dean.

Dean doesn't go near Florida.

Dean will never go near Florida unless forced, not even to this day; not even as a Knight of Hell.

So much effed up shit happens in Florida.

«»

He has a fake ID to get him into the front office of the building the demon had been working at and into reception where he glimpses a woman he'd seen for only a split second through the demon's eyes. He asks her if they can step into another room to have a private word about her missing coworker. She obliges and leads him to their small break room.

On Monday, Dean could sense the people in a building better than ever before. Souls glowed and stunk of their histories and intentions. Today? Nothing again. Today he is sweating in his suit. He is glad to be out of Crowley's clutches but feels like he's lost a mooring. He hasn't felt this mixed-up in a while.

"Coffee?" she asks, and Dean nods with as kind a smile as he can dredge up. She seems a little unsettled by it, but turns her back to pull up two fresh styrofoam cups.

Dean readies himself, stands straighter, pulls in a deep breath, and turns his eyes over to black. Then he begins to pull the smoke up from within the hot, snaring depths of himself. When she turns, she doesn't have enough time to look shocked, not even enough time for her muscles to slacken and drop the coffee cups. Dean's intrusion into her mind steadies her, snaps her spine upright, to attention. Makes her awakened, conscious mind go completely quiet.

Dean lets this part of himself detach, breathes through the extension -- through her -- and says, "Who else has been here lately? Show me."

It's like DVR in fast rewind, people moving backwards, skipping silently back minutes, then hours, then days-

until Dean stops it dead.

Castiel smiles. Sam is on his cell phone behind him.

Dean plays the memory.

_"I'm Mr. Winnfield, this is my associate Mr. Vega, we're with Channel 9 Investigates. We came to interview your supervisor about--"_

_"That deadbeat contractor!"_ Dean feels himself say with the old woman's voice, _"That awful man, I remember. Yes, Howard is in a meeting, it'll only be a few minutes more if you'd like to wait?" his hand--_ the woman's hand motions for Cas to have a seat to the right and, as soon as he turns away, the practiced eye--

_Dean's_ practiced eye can see the smile drop right off of Cas's face as he turns to touch Sam's elbow and usher him off to the side. The old woman hadn't been listening to what _Mr. Vega_ was saying. She'd mostly tuned it out to turn and answer one of the calls on hold. But Dean can hear location coordinates and Sam saying, _"No, I already checked, but thanks for looking, man. I owe you one. Let me know if you find any remains of--"_

He doesn't get anything more. Can't hear them off to the side while they wait. Fast-forwards, trying to get her eyes to fall on Sam, but the boss, Howard, steps out and calls them into his office.

Fast forward.

She bids them a good day when they leave and Cas attempts to smile as he follows Sam, hustling out the door-

Rewind. Play again. Sam frowning, rushing a little for the door.

Rewind. Play again. Sam frowning, rushing a little for the door.

Rewind. Play again. How quickly Cas's smile flashes. How Sam walks fast to get out of the building. Follow the next lead.

Rewind. Play again. Rewind. Play again. Rewind. Play again.

He withdraws and folds back into himself. The woman drops to Dean's feet. The coffee flies everywhere when it crashes down.

In his head, Dean sees it again. Cas and Sam. Cas and Sam. Cas and Sam.

He retreats further into himself. He sees what he saw in that demon traitor they captured. That one glimpse. The hunters that demon had killed. That _tiny flash_ two bodies on the floor.

Two hunters. Two bodies.

One red-head with a ball cap. One blond with a cigarette behind his ear. Both of them too short to fit.

Too short to be Cas. Way too short to be Sam.

Two hunters. Two bodies.

He can't place them. He reaches out to the memory. Tries to replay it. Tries to hear the chatter on the other end of the phone call that Sam had been distracted with while waiting for Howard.

He can't hear who it was but a lot of hunters travel in twos. No other men match the bodies he'd seen in that flash. That one instant he'd seen in the traitor's mind that he's been replaying constantly since the moment he saw it. That one moment that prompted him to spend the following hours with Crowley, really flexing, really extending himself in the smoke, forcing it out, trying to master at least some of the trick.

That one flash. Does not compare to anything about Sam or Cas.

But the traitor had heard Sam Winchester was coming after him.

And the receptionist had met Cas and seen them both.

They were here. They had been here. They had been _looking for him_.

He is so fucking sure of it.

He doubts. Always doubts. He's not worth it. Not worth their concern. Sam and Cas are better off without him.

But if they were near enough to Dean. Near enough to the right demons in order to find Dean.

Then they were near enough to be looking for Dean. They knew who he was going after, who he'd been assigned in the previous weeks to capture and kill. They'd followed that trail of missing traitors to Dean.

He's sweating.

Something falters in Dean.

Like the lava in him cresting over a cliff and meeting the icy waters of the ocean. Some of the heat inside him rolls to a stop, hisses and cools.

Dean looks down at his shoes, has to think about the coffee and creamer, has to get mad about it marring his shoes in order to flash outside and away.

He has to look for something to be angry about. Has to find a place to stop and rage and collect his thoughts.

He is outside. It's hot. Like he's under a heat lamp.  
He loosens his tie. Shudders. And then he is-

The world is black. Absent.

1200 miles from his misdirected tail, the false trail he'd laid down to assure Crowley he was going to stalk hunters in Miami, Dean's head hits the pavement of a parking lot. Hard. He's not awake to feel it, not in his meatsuit and not in the belching volcano of his new self.

For the first time since Metatron killed him, Dean checks out.  
Nobody's home.


	2. 200

Dean is in his bed again. He is in his bed like he never left. The soft memory foam contours to him and the sheets smell of the road, of his bags, his leather jackets, his entire life. They smell like he remembers himself.

His eyes open and only the right is demon-black, distorting the world around him like looking at 3D comics without the glasses on. He blinks until they both turn back to human white.

There are weights on his hands that he doesn't understand until he pulls them up to rub at his eyes and sees the manacles, oversized to accommodate the engravings on them.

This is no typical dirty ceiling he's staring up at. It's the same one Crowley must have gotten familiar with for the months he was held here.

Dean's mattress is set in the middle of the devil's trap in the bunker's dungeon.

There is no half-feeling. He is surprised to feel _complete_ relief.

Inside of this trap, in this building, he is a problem that can be solved.

He's not happy that this probably means Sam is the one who will have to take care of it. That won't be easy for Sam. But if Cas is still with him.

Maybe Cas.

He lets his body sink into the mattress. It's almost over.

He wants to laugh. But doesn't.

Eventually, he does laugh. Laughs to the point of watery eyes and hysteria. Because he feels a now-familiar tug.

Crowley is summoning him. And he can't be ripped from the circle of the devil's trap.

He can't be used anymore. He's all used up.

He chokes on the laughter after a few minutes. Chokes on the feeling of his own smoke, and that isn't right. He clamps his mouth shut, something like nausea pushing the corruption of his being up through his meatsuit's throat.

Dean's hot again, beginning to sweat but being run through by the occasional chill. It's almost like being sick. He feels sick.

It passes but leaves behind a throbbing in him. He thinks maybe Crowley has stopped trying to summon him. He thinks about putting his considerable strength into trying to rip his way out of the cuffs.

Mostly he doesn't want to. Knowing he's in the same building as Sam and Cas is beautiful. Pure and beautiful. He wants them, so badly. And his body wants to go where it's been ordered to go. The summoning spell still rolls like a headache behind his eyes.

He doesn't pull at the cuffs. He doesn't fidget. He tries to close his eyes and rest. Sleep doesn't come.

In a while, someone else does.

He doesn't really hear until they're close. And he knows, simply by the gait, that it's not Sam. He can't see through the walls. Can't smell them. He never even got around to being a very perceptive demon.

The light comes on first, then the bookcase opens.

Cas.

Dean turns his head. Good. This is good.

Cas doesn't greet him. He's in dress slacks and a shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He stops with the toes of his shoes on the edge of the circle and sits on the ground, crossing his legs.

Dean rolls his head on the pillow and swallows. His throat is dry. He hasn't been thirsty in a long time but he thinks he might be now.

"Hi," he says.

Cas nods.  
They don't say anything.

Until Dean asks: "You okay? Sam?"

"Yes," Cas says.  
It sounds tight. His eyes shine like he's sad enough to cry.

"Can I ask what time it is? What day?"

"It's Saturday. Early morning. It's about 2 a.m."

"I think I lost a couple days."

Cas nods. "You were unconscious for a while. Your- you convulsed a few times. You. Have a pulse but we don't know if that means anything."

"I'm not going anywhere," Cas quickly adds. "I'm not tired. I'm here to stay with you."

Dean thinks for a moment. "That might not be a great idea. Crowley's trying to call me back in. If he can call me in, he can probably track me. Can probably get in here."

Cas shakes his head. "We put out new lines and wards. And I don't think he's got anything powerful enough to pull you out of here." It sounds like a warning.

So Dean assures him that it's good. Good.

Cas nods and takes a deep breath. He'd been waiting to hear that Dean didn't wanna leave.

Dean didn't realize how easy it was being a tool, being Crowley's weapon. Truly fulfilling his destiny as a blunt instrument. The emotions had started falling away like leaves off a dying tree. He'd stopped looking for reasons to care and simply put one foot in front of the other. Cruising the path to his next kill.

In truth, it doesn't seem like that lasted very long.

How long was it? He wonders.  
How long did it take for him to don a suit like armor and start doing knight tricks? How much time passed between that point and that one blood-red moment he saw two dead hunters through a demon's eyes?

That moment almost choked every ounce of smoke out of him. It almost separated him from what he was becoming.

How long between that point and passing out after viewing the old woman's memory?

Only two days. And another two to get him here.

Four days ago, he'd been an entirely different creature. On his way to becoming Cain. Or maybe not really. He wasn't as solid at it as he thought he'd be. Not mission-oriented unless the Mark wanted to go kill things.

Something had rattled his insides. That vision of two dead hunters had sent a shock into his system.

He wonders if he's had a pulse this whole time or only for four days.

He feels Cas's eyes. Their weight has been on him since he entered the dungeon.

What he certainly doesn't feel. Doesn't smell. Doesn't sense.

Is Grace.

"Cas?" he squints but doesn't attempt to turn his eyes over to black. "You okay?"

"Yes," he repeats.

"You're. You don't. Do you. Are your wings back?"

Cas smiles, sad.

"No. That's all done now. The grace is gone. I wasn't able to keep it. I-" he hesitates and looks down, picking at the edge of his shoe. "I let them take it so I could come back. Sam needed help."

Dean doesn't respond.

Of course he could count on Cas to take care of Sam after he was gone. He should have known that. And, whatever went down, he shouldn't have had to give up being an angel for that. He shouldn't have had to give his life up. He's grateful he did it for Sam. But Cas. He's gone back and forth. It just seemed like.

Like maybe he was happier being an angel.

Cas won't believe him if he says 'sorry' right now. Or at least no one _should_ believe him.

"You took care of Sam. Thank you." At least, in any form, Cas would know he _meant_ it when he said that much. For his own part, he's got thoughts of Sam creeping into him like dread. He'd set Sam aside, no hope of seeing him again without some conflict. Now he's thinking of Sam so much it's pounding in him. A headache. He'd been such a waste. A disaster. He lost the job, couldn't be a part of the family anymore. He hadn't really intended that that would change. He'd thought that had ended for good. That he'd eventually lose feeling for it, the human parts falling away like they did for most demons.

Cas blinks up. "We thought you had died. I'd been told you were dead."

Dean doesn't know what to say to this, but again, he refrains from saying 'sorry.'

"Sam prayed. That you'd gone missing. He thought I'd be able to find you in heaven. I didn't have enough power left to do both things. I couldn't look for you and go to Sam. I had to choose."

Cas looks away and back to Dean. Licks his lips. "I had to do what you would have done for him. I went back to him."

It's weak, but Dean offers it, regardless. "You found me anyway."

"Sam did," Cas corrects. "I had no idea why he wanted to visit that building again. I don't know if he really knew why he was doing it, either, to be honest. Sam found you."

Dean's mouth is dry. He really is thirsty now.

He realizes that Cas hasn't entered the circle. He realizes that Cas looks very much like he has no solution for this.

He focuses on the ceiling. Focuses on the dread he feels at the idea of speaking to Sam in this way. From across the room. He's betting Cas finally made him put the books down and go to bed or something. If Sam was looking for him -- and Sam was _definitely_ looking for him -- then he's also running on 2 hours sleep and trying to find a way to fix Dean.

This ain't fixable. This is for good.

Something is wrong in him. He can feel that. Somewhere, where the remnants of Dean Winchester aren't yet scabbed over, something has festered between the demon and human parts. Something is wrong with the way he's changing into one of them. He pushed himself to perform the new tricks too soon or maybe was already so damaged, in his soul, that he can't even get being a demon right.

He shouldn't feel this helpless at this point. Four days ago he was a machine.

He's strapped to a mattress now. He maybe wants to see Sam one more time before they set fire to his bones and end it. Just end it.

"I'm guessing you couldn't even stop this if you lopped my arm off at the elbow," he says, not looking at Cas, still just staring up.

"That's not going to happen, we wouldn't do that to you."

"Well, you gotta do something. I feel... I'm not sure what's happening."

"We aren't either. We'll do-- we'll find some way, Dean."

Dean bites at the inside of his cheek. Inhale, exhale.

"Don't let Sam in here."

Cas doesn't respond. They both know Sam will go wherever he damn well pleases.

God. "You can't just end this right now? You can't just end me? Cas, this. This isn't gonna. Be easy. This is gonna be hell," he's searching for words that aren't an understatement. Crowley might lay siege to the bunker. Dean's power was his new favorite toy. He wanted to use it to define the extent of his reach. He wanted more- they hadn't even scratched the surface. They had not yet _begun_ to really squeeze and crush the lower ranks, let alone bring their terror to the open market of souls yet unclaimed.

He can see Cas, in his peripheral vision, shaking his head.

"That's not gonna happen," he sounds rougher, if that's possible. Almost like he's been shouting.

"I'm really fucked up, Cas. There's nothing for this. You didn't see Cain. He was ancient. He was alone. He just got rid of himself. He just moved himself out of the world. And just wanted nothing to do with-- he stayed away. If you can't kill me," he swallows around his dry throat, "then you gotta lock me away. Get rid of me somehow. This can only get worse."

"Dean. Look at me."

Dean doesn't look. He's trying to accept this. With acceptance will come the words. Something to say that will make Cas understand that there's no good ending to this. That they've gotta chop him up or light him up. There's no other way.

Something hits the side of Dean's face almost hard enough to sting.

Dean blinks at Cas. There's a bowl a couple feet away from him, bones and herbs, the charred remnants of spellwork. A small quartz rune stone rolls away from the ricochet off his face.

"It's not happening," Cas says with conviction, almost venom. "You won't die. It's not gonna happen," he bites out. "We're not losing you again. We're fixing this."

"It's beyond broken, Cas. There _is no_ fixing this."

"Sam and I will not lose you again. You are alive. We'll get you better," he says, almost like he's ordering Dean around.

Dean shakes his head at Cas's stubbornness. Fucking unbelievable.

Cas glares. "We mourned you. _I_ have mourned you. I've got you back and I will preserve you. I will have you to a ripe old age, Dean. You'll help me. You'll show me how to be human and you'll let me be a family to you."

He clearly means fucking _business_. He's stating everything like they're absolutes. Like Dean's got amnesia or something and just forgot that this is his reality and it is concrete. Cas is reading him the law.

He just looks at Cas for a while.

Dean's in chains, strapped low to a floor in a devil's trap.

His body might be falling apart. His soul-- being. Whatever. It's frying and fracturing.

He realizes.  
He's sick.

In a way he is ill and, while this illness will most likely result in his death, he has caretakers. And they want to try to make him better while they've got the time to.

Maybe.  
Maybe he needs to let them.

At any rate, they probably won't let him hear the end of it if he refuses to be helped. And they can always just strap him down tighter and force-feed him salt or something. Better not to push Cas, at least, as he comes from a whole family with a close-knit tradition of torturing each other for cooperation.

Anyway. He's chained to a fucking floor. Eventually he won't have much of a choice.

Deep inhale. Exhale.

"I'm a shit, Cas." It's as close as he can get to a 'sorry' he can't deliver.

Cas purses his lips. Looks around. Folds his legs in again and sits compact, slightly hunched. His fingers trail across the cement to the edges of the circle and his nails tap just along the border. His fingers don't cross it.

"Yes. We love you anyway."

Dean's throat is really dry. It clicks when he tries to swallow this down.

«»

The hours of quiet vigil wear on Cas. Dean doesn't offer information on where he's been or what's been going on. And still, Cas sits with him. He readjusts, but still doesn't quite fidget like a human. He's probably just too old and steady for that. He has moved to sit with his back to the wall, out of Dean's vision unless he tilts his head back and looks up.

It's quiet enough that they both hear the outer door.

"Cas," Dean starts.

Cas makes no move to get up and stop Sam from coming in.

"He shouldn't," Dean tries to warn.

Cas lets Sam walk in anyway.

Sam halts immediately upon seeing Dean's open eyes.

" _Dean_ ," choked up, clumsy tongue, watery voice. The relief Dean always heard when little Sammy would have a nightmare and Dean would wake him up, chanting that it was okay.

For only the second time since he woke up, his arms try to rise, despite the chains.

Flash of anger. Like one from the last few weeks. He knows if he doesn't concentrate on it, the circle might not hold him. He might get angry enough to flash right out. While the circle and chains are keeping him here, the spellwork old and locked in, he's a different kind of monster. He didn't get very far with Crowley's lessons, couldn't shout loud enough to break the floor yet. He hadn't yet explored all the ways in which he was more power-packed than The King of Hell himself, but he's aware that, with practice, he'd be harder to pin down.

Dean drops his hands to the mattress and digs his fingers in. Inhale.  
Sammy. Exhale.

Sam comes close, his toes on the edge of the trap. Cas straightens where he sits and leans forward, like he'd stop Sam if he had to.

Sam takes in both Dean's tight restraint and Cas's look of caution.  
His face crumples.

He crouches, curling over and holding his head in his hands, hair messy and falling between his fingers.

Sam has to breathe for a few moments. It saws out of him, harsh, teary, before he sniffs and pulls himself together to look up again. He drops to sit at the edge of the circle. He's got less care for its borders. His toes and knees cross onto the edges and he leans forward enough that part of him is actually pressing inside the boundaries.

Cas scoots over, closer to him. He motions with a flat hand that Sam should at least lean back.

Sam barely obliges. "Say something," he demands of Dean.

"Say what?" Dean asks, voice rasping from his dry throat.

"The hell, man? Where the hell have you been? Are you-- what. I mean. Dean," he just looks a little bewildered.

Dean watches him. He'd expected anger or determination or distrust. Not outright _mourning_. Sam's still mourning. He knows there's no coming back from this. That he's stuck with the demon or he has to get rid of Dean.

Sam maybe never loved Dean so fiercely. Sam was always the center of Dean's self, Dean's world, Dean's purpose. That wasn't reciprocated in equal measure and he knew it. It was alright. Sam had a better sense of who he was, and even when he didn't, he was willing to try to figure himself out. Sam took the time to sit alone with himself and decide he had boundaries. He'd only go so far. Sam had limits.

Dean learned to love that about Sam. He wanted Sam to be better than him, like Sam was Dean's own child. He wanted Sam to become more than himself. That was how Sam did it: by growing outside of their family and being something more. He was always so proud of Sam, even when things went sideways. Even when they had good reasons to be angry at each other.

He sees Sam now and the way he used to feel propels his heart to beat faster. It comes wriggling up from the depths, knocking on his ribcage like a chestburster. Like it had been coiled, dormant, and one long look at Sammy reminds him he's missed this in the past few months. Sam's goofy, snotty face when he cries. How tall and huge he is, a giant in this room with its low ceilings, especially. Sam's heart, all the broken little pieces of it lodged in his throat waiting for Dean to _say something_.

This isn't gonna go well. Dean had to become this just to destroy Abaddon. Sam's not gonna become something worse just to put Dean down for good.

Dean slackens, falls back to the mattress where he'd been straining against the cuffs, wanting to be nearer to Sam.

Sam swallows noisily and starts again. "Crowley said he couldn't find you. He said Cas had already taken you to heaven. I thought you were finally." Sam stops. "When Cas showed," he tries. Stops again.

"Crowley had me working for him," Dean admits.

Sam considers this, searching for something that'll make this make sense.

"He just. Brought you into the fold. Made you go hunt the demons who rebelled from him?"

"Something like that."

Sam gives Dean a long moment to add to that which he does not use.

He's hurt when he asks, "You never thought of coming to me for help? Or Cas? Dean, we--"

"It wasn't that easy, Sam, dammnit." Dean closes his eyes for a moment and, really, this is getting annoying. "Christ, can I. I need. Can I have some water? Dying over here. My throat," he motions vaguely, the chains clacking.

Cas rises and touches Sam's shoulder, letting him know he doesn't have to move. "Be right back," he disappears.

"What do you mean it wasn't that easy?" Sam demands.

"Spells, Sam. Crowley's got spells to keep _all_ his guys in line. I'm not any different. It's-- I can feel it. Right now. He's trying to find me. Trying to yank me back. I couldn't disappear without him summoning me back in just," Dean clicks his fingers. "Always. I had time limits for every hunt before he'd yank me back in."

"You couldn't come home," Sam says, dazed. "He had you on a leash."

Dean laughs, once, humorless and edged with anger. "On a leash. Pretty fucking much."

"Dean," Sam starts. Then tries again. "Dean. How do you feel right now?"

Dean shifts on the mattress. The ankle manacles clink where they're attached to the ground. He starts with the easiest, most obvious of assessments. He's so parched. He's sipped drinks with Crowley in his offices but he hasn't had a real drink or meal since... shit. Long before he faced Metatron.

Metatron.

He has to put the simmering aside. Has to stop being angry immediately. Sam asked him a question, he intends to answer.

"Thirsty," he finally says. "I think I need water. I haven't had water. In. I donno."

"Dean," he knows Sam wants more than that. Sam knows the he knows.

"I'm." Dean thinks. "Not optimistic," he finally bites out. "This isn't gonna work, Sammy," he says, low, defeated.

Sam takes a tight breath and rubs at his eyes.

"It is," he insists. "We'll find something."

Dean tries to wet his lips before he remembers he can't. He just licks them and wishes Cas would hurry up. Inhale. Exhale. Stare at the ceiling. He's not angry. He's _not_.

"Sam. You know exactly how I feel. You know because I've felt this way. God. For so long. So long. Maybe since the first time in Hell. Since I came back and I knew. Sam," he meets his eyes. "I felt like they chopped off some important pieces and left 'em down there to fry. I've felt. Fucking _empty_. For a really long time. Felt like this," he motions to himself, "was inevitable for a pretty long time. You know how I felt then. I still feel the same."

It starts small, Sam shaking his head.

"You know it's true. Sam, they kept parts of me down there. You knew I wasn't the same when I got back. You knew I was never better at hunting until," the chains clack as he turns his arm, exposes the Mark of Cain to the light. "That I was never a. Whole human. I haven't been _whole_ since my deal came due."

"That's not true," Cas says, stepping back into the room lightly, voice quiet but cold, completely certain.

Sam looks back up at Cas.

Cas takes a deep breath and crouches next to Sam, takes his hand, and wraps a rosary around Sam's wrist. Even hands him the demon-killing knife to put in his back pocket. Then he gives Sam the bottle of water he brought and nods. Sam nearly falls into the circle he moves into it so quickly. He comes directly to Dean's side and his hand falls to Dean's thigh. "Sit up," Sam says. Dean can't sit up very far because of the positioning of the mattress. Sam turns to the hooks in the floor, untwists and untangles the chains, giving them more slack, and Dean can at least sit up the whole way. Sam hands him the bottle of water and Dean doesn't wait. He chugs. He only thinks after he's half-way through the bottle that maybe he should have expected to get burned...

He pauses, looks to Cas. Cas isn't surprised that he's not reacting to the water. He didn't bless it. He... doesn't know why he thought Cas might. Cas and Sam won't hurt him. This isn't the usual case. Cas just couldn't let Sam loose into the devil's trap with him without at least the minimal protection. Just a rosary. And the knife he knows Sam won't draw.

Dean looks down, to see Sam's fingers digging into his leg. Weird. He doesn't really feel them.

He looks up at Sam, then, feeling lost.

He can tell that look when Sam wants to cocoon him in blankets and hide him away. Usually it's after a hunt, usually it's when the bleeding won't stop and his hands are too unsteady on the stitches. Sam wants to grab him, wrap around him now. He is restraining himself to just the one hand.

Sam shakes the beads further up his wrist and puts his hand on Dean's shoulder. Pats his face. Drops his hand to his shoulder again.

"Sam," Cas says, and he's standing tensed back at the edge of the circle.

Sam looks reluctant, but pulls away, leaves Dean with the water and steps back outside of the devil's trap to sit next to it.

"Nothing is missing in you, Dean," Cas says, still standing taller than the both of them.

"Bull. It was always meant to be this way. They just pulled it off piece by piece," Dean nods to himself. "I was meant to be this."

"Fuck that," Sam says, shaking his head.

Cas, too, shakes his head. "No. Perhaps," he sighs. "Perhaps Sam and I, maybe it's our fault that you felt that way for so long without us correcting you." He shrugs. "But that will change now. Dean, you were never meant to be anything but yourself. You just haven't had the time away from this war, this chaos, to decide who you are. What you want to do until you're too old to enjoy it. What you want to do with your entire lifetime. The mark you leave upon the world. You've already changed it. In so many good ways--"

"But you were too busy," Sam interrupts, "too busy cleaning up the family mess to just be one man. Cas is right, Dean. It's our fault you thought that way for so long."

Dean turns away, drinks the rest of the water.

"Once we get you back, that's something that will change. Whatever John built you in to," and Cas motions at Sam, "whatever Azazel intended to build Sam into. You don't have to be that anymore. We can decide that it ends here."

Dean's eyes go wide so they can see him roll them from across the circle.

"You two bastards. You have no idea. It doesn't fucking _end_ because you say it does." He caps the bottle, drops it to the bed and _yanks_ suddenly, violently on the chains at his wrists. Sam jumps at the screech of metal and the way the hooks tremble at the strength now tensing the chains. "This? This doesn't just happen overnight. Remember the only other knight you've tangled with?" he challenges, "We had no choice but to send _me_ after her. You're fucking _dreaming_ if you think there's a cure to this."

His eyes flash over to black then. And Cas still doesn't look startled.

Sam? Looks disgusted.

He stands. Dean keeps his black eyes on him. He has never looked at Sam through them. He's fever-bright. Like the lava under Dean's own skin, but brilliant gold, not molten orange. He's radiating, pulse thrumming the heat out into the surrounding air. A beacon of humanity.

Beside him, Cas is human, too, but blue-tinged and the shadows of crumpled, wounded, featherless wings still droop at his back. They both look awful to him. He's looking through to the pitiless depths of them and seeing beautiful things that make up his enemies.

Or should. What he sees should be fueling a fire inside him, but he keeps his eyes black and sneers at them now more in an attempt to get them as pissed as he is.

He has no delusions, here. They can't feed him that bullshit.

"There is a cure for this, Dean. _You_ remember _that?_ How we never got to try it out on Abaddon after we stitched her up? There is a cure," Sam nods. "There's no hitting the books. There's no doubt. It almost worked on Crowley. It's worked in the past. And it'll work on you."

Dean shakes his head. "You're dreaming. You try and drag me to a church from here? Crowley'll be on it in seconds."

"You can root for your old boss all you want. We've got new wards up. He can sniff around all he likes. But Cas found a chapel on a lower level," Sam shakes his head at himself. "Should have known there'd be one in here. All we have to do is haul your ass downstairs and start stabbing."

The mocking sneer drops from Dean's face.

"I'll get you more water. And when I get back you won't be such a bitch about this." He turns to Cas. "Go get some sleep, man," then leaves them behind, standing tall, complete confidence.

Dean looks down. Blinks the black out of his eyes.

"You don't really think provoking us to kill you will work do you?" Cas looks at him like he's kinda fucking stupid.

Dean slumps. He is kinda fucking stupid.

"You guys should just let it go. I'm not any use to you without this. And I'm a fucking _plague_ with it."

Cas cocks his head. An old Cas gesture.

Then he takes a deep breath and steps into the circle. One foot, then the next. No little semblance of protection at all. No weapon at his side.

Dean actually has the impulse to scoot back on the mattress.

Cas's feet are bare of shoes and socks. His arms are crossed over his chest. He comes directly to Dean's side and crouches. Then reaches out and takes Dean's head in both his hands.

He stares.

Well, he always stares. But here he stares from up close. Fingers brushing back and forth lightly over the short hairs at the nape of Dean's neck. He sweeps his thumbs over Dean's cheeks and ears once.

It's so fucking weird. Dean would give anything to feel it. The bitch of invulnerability.  
He _can't feel it_.

Cas draws him close.

He just says, "Dean."

And touches his forehead to Dean's. He stays for a too-short moment before rising, doesn't let Dean's lifted hands touch him at all. He walks out of the circle and turns. "I'll be back in a while. Don't do this to Sam. We want you back. We wouldn't have looked, wouldn't have _found you_ , wouldn't be trying to _save you_ if you weren't still Dean. You're still you. You're still whole. You're still right there. We'll flush this out of you and we'll have you back."

Firm. Certain. Unwavering.

"Goodnight. _I love you_. I'll see you in a few hours."

Cas turns again and leaves him alone, walking out of the dungeon and the file room.

Dean sits with those words in the air around him for a few quiet minutes. Sits with nothing but himself and those words.

He squirms. Shifts on the bed. Kicks out his ankles to unkink the chains connected to them.

Christ. Is this an exorcism or a fucking intervention?

He sighs. Sam's gonna be crushed when the fucking cure doesn't work on him. Eight hours of plunging purified blood into a regular demon, yeah, maybe it worked in the old recording and maybe it would have worked on Crowley. But Dean's pretty sure he's like a fair few fucking degrees of bad over and above that. He would have been more powerful than Crowley someday.

Some day. If his body hadn't started to... object.

He knows he's a lot more collected than any demon they've had in chains before. He knows he's parsing things out with human reasoning and staying calm and concentrating. And feeling things.

His brother. Sammy, especially, is right there. Where he's always been. He's brick number one. The foundation stone. Dean knows exactly who he is around Sam. And, sure, he'd scare some facts into him, but he wouldn't hurt him.

Shit.

He wouldn't hurt Cas either. He came over and touched him. Even after his little display. And with no method of self-preservation should Dean fly at him.

_Goodnight. I love you._

Dean finds the water bottle and chugs the rest. Caps and chucks the empty at the far wall.

His mind curves so far out to avoid the important part, he thinks, _Goodnight? Isn't it morning?_

«»

Sam sits with him for the next few hours. He brings a box of cereal with him to eat dry Raisin Bran out of.

Dean laid down again and turned away from the door. He feigns sleep and doesn't really drop off. He thinks he doesn't fool Sam, either.

Sam also brought some old notes. When Dean finally looks over, he sees Sam flipping pages, reviewing the notes on both the failed and successful rituals. The ones on the first are all in his own hand. They hadn't found any notes on it, but it seems like Sam has reviewed it several times and made pages upon pages of notations on how _not_ to cure a demon.

Sam disappears around lunch and brings a third bottle of water and a sandwich for himself. He offers Dean unsalted pistachios he found in the pantry and offers to look for more stuff, but Dean doesn't want to eat.

He sits up, just sits there. Across the room from Sam, who's chewing with little reservation or politesse, like he hasn't really eaten in the past few weeks.

Dean feels that chestburster feeling in his stomach again and it could be that Sam blessed the water just to give him shit, or it could be. Well. Guilt.

"You could chew with your fucking mouth closed at least."

"I do chew with my mouth closed," Sam says around a bite.

"But you talk with your mouth full."

"You raised a heathen, yes, Dean," he says around some potato chips.

Dean rolls his eyes and looks away.

"You didn't raise a heathen," Sam says after a moment, like he's worried he offended Dean or something.

Dean shakes his head and opens his water to polish it off. Caps it and rolls it across the ground to knock into Sam's knee.

Sam rolls it back. They return it for a while.

"I could get the chess set," Sam offers.

"I don't know what you're doing here anyway."

"Just making sure," Sam shrugs.

Making sure Dean doesn't keel over and die or making sure he doesn't break free and return to Crowley. Making sure of something.

"You want another one?" Sam snags his bottle from on top of a folder and rolls that over instead.

Dean reaches out to catch it and next all he feels is lightning, crashing him back, flinging him over the other side of the mattress, slamming his head into the floor. The chains reach their limit as his body pulls, straining against them, an invisible force grabbing him, shaking him. He feels nothing but jolts through his whole being, the smoke belching out of his volcanic insides, touching the clouds and charging, surging with shocks.

He can just barely hear Sam shouting over them, can't feel him trying to stop it at all. He's flung one direction and bolted in another entirely. He's restrained but doesn't feel it through the surges inside of him for long minutes.

When they finally subside, Sam has wrestled Dean into the bedclothes, wrapped them around him and wrapped himself around Dean, holding him to the floor.

Dean throws up all the water he drank and passes out.

«»

He wakes up on his face. Belly-down on the mattress. New sheets. And another thrown over him. New padding under the manacles.

His throat raw, dry.

He blinks and his eyes roll to black as he fights a heaving feeling inside himself. Not specifically from his stomach. And there comes the return of the tug. Crowley's summons.

Dean groans.

He realizes he's been staring straight through Cas when he leans over his knees looking concerned.

Cas isn't outside the circle. And Sam's not in the room.

"Did I hurt him?"

Cas is quick to shake his head in assurance. "No. You were bleeding from the mouth for a while. And the cuffs dug into your arms. Are you alright?"

"No idea." Dean attempts to sit up. He's fine to do it. He doesn't ache. Being unconscious was more disorienting than anything. "I need more water."

Cas nods and pulls a bottle over. "Sam's asleep. It's been several hours."

"How many?"

"Eleven."

Dean pauses. Sits up fully, accepts the bottle. "Huh."

There's an ache, low at the ribs again.

He can kind of swallow it down. It's only mildly uncomfortable.

"Shouldn't you be," Dean points further away.

"Yes."

That spot. It twinges.  
He grimaces a little, rubs at it.

Dean's got a black dress shirt and slacks on still. He looks around. Wonders if they could bring him jeans. He thinks he should feel a little filthy after having been in these clothes so long.

They probably won't let him out of the chains long enough to change.

He has to rub at the spot again. God.

He pulls his shirt up. There's nothing, but it aches.

"Is something wrong?" Cas asks.

"I donno. Do you know what could have-- I don't even know what happened exactly."

"From what Sam described, it seemed like what happened to him in the panic room," Cas shifts where he's sitting like it's uncomfortable having to say it. "Like when he would detox."

Demon blood.

He can't deny it makes a kind of sense. And also doesn't.

"There's something wrong with me, isn't there."

"Crowley keeps trying to summon you."

"Yeah, but that can't just be it. I mean, I can feel that right now. Earlier, that was different. That felt... like... I got the shit shocked out of me. Or something. Can he curse someone long-distance? Can he put a curse on me that'll hurt me that far?"

Cas looks a little dubious but admits that there's a possibility.

There's another twinge and Dean decides he's just gonna have to get used to it. He's fucking falling apart. There's nothing for it.

"I gotta wonder what you guys are waiting for, Cas. If you think you've got the all-powerful solution to this shit," he gripes.

Cas scoots closer and pulls one of Dean's hands from the water bottle. He envelops it in both of his and simply holds it.

"You remember the first film reel?" Cas asks.

"The exorcism of the old woman." Dean remembers the final moments before the film cut out. Her chest burst wide open, the bones cracked, wasted body on the ground.

Fuck. He's got that in him right now, doesn't he? He's got it festering under his ribs. He wants to shake his hand loose and press it to his chest. But he doesn't, he stays in Cas's grip.

"Sam tracked down the woman's body. Tracked down her grave and the records of her possession. She was shot, point blank, in the chest by a neighbor while possessed. It didn't work, of course. The demon came at the man and destroyed him. It was restrained by the Men of Letters and brought to that church. But when the cleansing went wrong, everything that the demon had done to its vessel- _every wound was reopened_."

"Oh fuck," Dean curses, knowing now.

There's not something escaping from his insides. There's a wound reopening.

From Metatron's blade. He's cracking back open as he loses grip on his demonic side.

"You don't know if I'll just slip back into being a human if you wait long enough. Or if you cure me, I'll just fucking bleed out."

"We're not positive," Cas has to admit. "But we're not going to let you die," he squeezes Dean's hand. "You're not going anywhere without me."

Dean cocks his head, assessing. "Why so touchy-feely all of a sudden, man?"

For the first time since Dean's been here, the corner of Cas's mouth turns up in a kind of smile.

"I never really got to be before," Cas squeezes his fingers hard enough that Dean can almost feel it. "I never got to... say. Everything," he shrugs.

Dean's got a hole opening back up in his guts. He's half-way to dead any way he looks at it. He's gonna die having been Crowley's little _pet_ , strapped to the dungeon floor in a devil's trap, below a place he once called home.

He's going back to Hell. It's permanent. He's sure of that. He won't be going back as a knight, he'll be going back to the rack or into a cell or into the common drudgery of the damned. Or maybe into a special dungeon where Crowley will choose his own very special punishment for meddling Winchesters who refuse to follow his orders.

And Cas suddenly wants to touch him.

He can't decide who that's more unfair for.

He can't feel it, though. Wants to, but can't. So if it makes Cas happy. He supposes he can deal with it. Cas will come to face the hard reality sooner or later. Depending on when Dean starts bleeding from the chest.

Dean notices Cas holds his right hand. Has no qualms about staring down at where they touch and seeing the Mark directly above, exposed from where they'd rolled his shirtsleeves up.

Cas has always wanted to stay. No matter how fucked up Dean's been.

He jolts a tiny bit where he sits, but can't decide if it's the new ache or Crowley's meddling or himself getting choked up about holding fucking hands.

Cas lets one hand go to reach up and grip the back of his neck, fingers digging in, massaging or soothing. Dean lets his head fall forward more the harder his fingers work. Cas seems to get the message and, wherever he touches, holds on tight. Tries to ease Dean in some way.

They talk a little more than Dean and Sam had, in their time alone. Cas being reassuring and reaching out now and again to touch.

Dean notes that he saw his wings. What remains of them, anyway. And Cas explains that the other angels helped him remove the last of the foreign and poisonous grace. Once he decided to give it over, to stay and help Sam, instead of staying in Heaven to renew it, or searching there for Dean, they removed the last of it for him. So he could stay and hope to find him still on earth.

Dean doesn't totally understand. Cas simply assures him that his family -- and he says _former family_ with some finality -- understands and supports his choice. And assured him they'd see him when his human lifespan ended.

"Must be nice," Dean tries, really tries, to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Must be great knowing where you'll end up at least. Even if it is the Kingdom of Carbon Copies."

Cas reaches for him again, fingers firm on his jaw, turning his head up, waiting for Dean to meet his eyes. "Where _we_ will end up. _You_ , me, _Sam_. You're not going anywhere without me," he repeats.

«»

Sam comes down to the dungeon later in the morning than Dean would have thought, but Cas doesn't complain. He does leave the circle when he hears Sam at the outer door. Cas obviously tries for a casual look to it, turning to pick up Dean's empty bottles of water and straighten a stack of files. Dean guesses Cas isn't supposed to be risking sitting inside the devil's trap with him. And he's doing it anyway.

He wouldn't understand the extra measure of caution. If it weren't _Sam_ they were being cautious with.

Dean keeps up the pretense.

Sam puts his hands on his hips after he ducks through the entryway. "We've got a problem. A couple of the outer wards were almost broken, washed off, like someone had managed to spray water at them. So I go back outside to touch them up, and there's two guys just... hanging out. In the trees. Just posted up, leaning, just watching me."

"Demons?" Cas asks, rising to stand.

"I started walking up with the shotgun, started in on an exorcism, and they just blinked off."

Cas huffs a breath and frowns.

"They're starting to watch," Sam says.

"Yes," Cas agrees.

Sam turns to his brother. "How you feeling, Dean?"

Dean shrugs.

Sam narrows his eyes at him, like he's trying to have x-ray vision.

"He keeps rubbing his chest," Cas tattles.

"Ugh," Dean sighs. "It's not a big deal."

But Sam has already started going white. He's staring at Dean's center... where Dean is, again, unconsciously rubbing the pain away.

He drops his hand to his lap with a clink of chains.

Cas straightens and nods to himself. "We shouldn't wait any longer. We'll start the cleansing tonight."

"Tonight?!" Sam and Dean both blurt, whipping their heads to look at Cas.

Cas looks momentarily unsettled, eyes sliding between the two of them.

Then he smiles just slightly before he wipes the grin right off his face to be serious.

"We're not sure if we just _wait_ a while, Cas, if maybe-" Sam starts to protest.

"He may already be bleeding internally," Cas cuts him off. "I'll eat, rest a few hours, then when I get up we'll take him to the chapel and I'll start the injections."

"WOAH. _You?_ Cas we're not even sure you're human enough-"

Cas interrupts again, "You can't do the full ritual, we don't know what that will do to you, Sam, there's still a very _BIG_ spell you left unfinished and I don't completely trust that-"

"Cas does the ritual," Dean says over Sam's new protests and Cas's continued explanations. They both stop and look at him. "End of discussion. I can see how human Cas is. It'll work, he's human now. Sam can't do it."

"The hell I can't," Sam spits.

"You're not doing it."

"But what if it's a two-fer? What if I cure you _and_ the spell finishes? What if we close Hell?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Dean shrugs. "But the real end of the spell, as far as we could figure, was that _you die_. So: no. You're not doing it. Cas is. You'll have to be healthy and rested enough to start stitching me up as it progresses, anyway. I got into more than one tussle when I was out working," Dean diplomatically does not mention that the first few times he hunted demons for Crowley, he'd take beatings just to get further enraged. Just to be a better weapon, to turn the fight dramatically and feel the amazing surge of power at whipping every ass in the building.

"Fuck," Sam rubs his eyes. "I can do this, you guys."

"You've been outvoted, Sammy," Dean says with finality.

Sam turns to glare at him. His jaw works like he's gonna pull out some crap basis for rejecting Dean's vote entirely.

But the nerd angel is not to be fucked with. Cas is just as unwavering and Sam knows it.

"I'm going to rest up," Cas announces. He touches Sam's arm to get his attention. "Prepare what you can. We'll both help him down there, don't attempt to move him on your own. If Crowley summons Dean again, it will be best if he remains here. This trap will help him resist more easily."

Sam shrugs his hand off but nods in rough agreement, still pissed at getting walked over.

Cas turns to gather the empty plastic bottles. "You should try to rest, too, Dean. I love you, I'll see you later," he nods and leaves the Winchesters in the dungeon.

Sam watches Cas go, then slowly turns back to Dean, who hollers, too late, "Bring back a fucking pair'a _jeans_ if you like me so much."

He ignores Sam's confused look for as long as he can. Then shrugs, challenges, "What?"

"Nothing," Sam says, forced and mild. "Just. Nothing."

"He keeps saying crap like that," Dean waves it off.

"Alright. Listen. Don't just brush him off, okay? He's just being honest. I mean. Dude. _After_ , if you don't feel the same way? You can tell him. But don't be a dick," Sam says, like Dean's being an idiot.

"What?" What the hell?

Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his hair out of his face, tucks it behind his ears. He lowers himself to the ground on the edge of the trap and drapes his arms over his knees.

"Cas likes you. Don't be a dick. He. Dean, when we thought you were dead. He showed up. He was so. Fuck, man. He was broken. I mean, I know it makes you uncomfortable. But he loves you. Once you're," he gestures at all of it, the trap, the dungeon, Dean, "human again. When you can parse it out. Just let him down easy, okay? But you're. Well. A demon right now, so try not to be a dick about it."

It's the first time Sam has out-and-out labelled him the d-word.

Not a _dick_. It's pretty clear that being a _dick_ is just in Dean's genetic make-up.

Hearing Sam call him a demon is.  
 _Supremely_ uncomfortable.

"O--kay," Dean agrees, halting but compliant.

Geeze. As if he would really hurt Cas for saying something so innocent. So Cas. Even now he wouldn't do that. Cas is just. A little too hopeful, that's all. He's gonna get himself crushed even more.

Then again.

For the first time, Dean reassesses.

That blue tinge around Cas. Yes: he's fully human now. But that blue tinge was the remnants of something. Maybe just immortality or holiness. Maybe it was a last blessing bestowed on him by his brothers and sisters before he finally left the fold. Dean can't be sure.

But what if that blue tinge speaks to something else? What if Cas really can...?

Dean rubs at the twinge again and Sam starts forward, like he wants to help.

He stops himself and reconsiders.

Sam rises, then. "Look, I'm gonna go get a few things ready for the chapel. I'll be back in a little bit. Lie down, okay? And yell loud if it really starts to hurt."

"It doesn't hurt that bad," Dean grumbles.

" _Lie down_ ," Sam orders. "I'll be back and we'll see if we can't do something about the pain, alright? Dean just trust me on this."

"Okay, okay," Dean waves him off. Sam shakes a bottle at him, and tosses. Dean catches it.

"Just holler, okay?"

Dean nods, watches him go.

A half hour into Sam's absence, Dean feels the tug of Crowley's summons.

He tenses up at first, then forcibly relaxes back into the mattress. Closes his eyes and focuses on some of the things he'd learned today.

Just like Crowley said, Sam summoned him, and was told that Cas already took Dean to heaven.

Sam's prayer was heard and the angels offered Cas one last choice of help: he could be propelled through the Gates and left to search in Heaven, or propelled to the ground and left to search with Sam. The angels are staying in heaven with Metatron as their prisoner. Gadreel, that misguided bastard. He'd saved Cas and killed himself.

And now Sam tells him that Cas was broken by his death. Cas made the choice to leave Heaven. To leave what he once was. He chose to stay for Sam even if he couldn't save Dean. Because it's what Dean would have done. Cas loves him. Cas doesn't care who knows anymore. He doesn't care about the reservations Dean would have if he were fully himself right now. He is sharing his intentions and plainly expressing himself.

He wishes he could have a Grinch moment and this would all be over right now. Wishes for his heart to just grow to three times its size this day and change him for the better. Return him to the painful, awful, broken, flawed human form. Open to heartbreak and embarrassment and arousal and...

Fuck. You know, he could do with some goddamn _happiness_ for once.

He tastes blood when he's lying down.

That's not good.

He decides to rest sitting up again.

Sits and waits.

«»

Sam brings jeans. He throws a rosary around his wrist because Cas would probably tell him to do so, but he likely knows Dean wouldn't hurt him.

Dean's not opposed to this small precaution, anyway. Doesn't comment.

He helps Dean out of the ankle manacles and decides to leave them off once he's changed into the jeans.

"Sweet motherfucking denim," Dean sings under his breath.

"What the fuck?" Sam laughs at him, and sits in the circle next to him. "Here goofball."

Dean curiously accepts two pills from Sam. One looks straight-up pharmaceutical and the other herbal and hand-made.

"I donno how it works if I eat things, Sammy. I still haven't even had to piss yet," he indicates, wiggling his empty bottle between them and then tossing it to the side.

Sam hands him a fresh water. "I think we have to try this. I think it will help. I'm not going with pain relievers or anti-inflammatory anythings. I think we want to stay away from blood thinners because we don't know if you're really bleeding inside.

Dean frowns, but doesn't reply.

"So this is an antibiotic -- we'll try to prevent any infection ahead of time -- and the herbs are something I came across a while ago, just in pill form. Hopefully they'll provide a _little_ pain relief and. Well. You're powerful. So any effects that might hurt. You know. A lesser demon. Hopefully it won't so much as sting you at such a small dose. Just try it," he prompts, pushing at Dean's hand.

Dean downs the pills. They both sit there stone-still for a moment, waiting, like he might explode.

Until Sam shrugs.

"Got everything ready, for, um. Tonight?"

Sam nods. "Paint's drying. You still don't wanna try eating?"

"Um." Dean assesses. "No."

"So weird," Sam shakes his head. "I'm living in a universe with a broken vacuum."

Dean would have backhanded his arm for that but lowers his hand, cautious. He doesn't want it interpreted as being malicious if he hits too hard. He just glares a little.

"I um. I have a question."

"Shoot."

"Where's the blade, Dean?"

"Ah." Okay. He'd been focusing on this trick on his own. He doesn't think Cain knew how to do this or else he would have called the blade out of the sea himself and Crowley wouldn't have had to look for it.

It seems to be a trick unique to Dean. But he left it with Crowley. So it might not be smart to call it back to this spot.

Eh. Fuck it.

"Hold on a sec," Dean says. Scoots back on the mattress and sits as far from Sam as he can. "Back up," he orders.

Sam scoots to the edge of the circle.

Dean has to call something up. He doesn't really want to. But maybe the blade shouldn't stay in Crowley's hands.

So he tries to get angry. Sits back and focuses. Pulls the chains at his wrists taut.

He can't get it. He can't reach it. He knows when he opens his eyes, they're black. He can see Sam's inner brightness again.

He realizes it's been a while since he could sense either of them at a distance in the bunker. Or smell them.

That's completely faded. It was always glitchy but now it's gone.

He's actually breaking down pretty fast.

He frowns.

"What was that about?" Sam asks.

"I tried to call it to me," he blinks his eyes back to green. "Guess that ain't workin' anymore, either."

"Oh. Where do you keep it?"

"Crowley had it. I was supposed to be on... vacation. A 48-hour furlough."

"A... baby-eating vacation?" Sam asks.

"Ew, dude, what?"

"Sorry! I just. I hear 'demon vacation,' and--"

"Could you. I mean. I know, really, I know. But maybe stop calling me that? And I didn't gain an appetite for _baby flesh_ over a matter of a few months. Seriously. Gross, Sam."

"Sorry! I didn't," Sam suddenly looks genuinely remorseful. "God. I'm sorry, man. I. That was tasteless. I know you're not, like, a full-on initiate. I know better than that. Sorry."

Dean only shrugs. "I could, um. Say I'm sorry for not calling?"

Sam doesn't excuse it. Doesn't say, _it's okay, you thought it was the end_. Because Dean still thinks it's the end for him.

Dean still thinks there is an inevitable, bloody end to this.

"You could try not being so determined to end yourself. That, I promise you, I won't forgive anymore," Sam scoots closer again and reaches up to scrub a rough hand through Dean's hair. Dean doesn't so much as flinch or sway from the touch like normal. So strange for Dean to be so completely solid and immovable. Sam's still smarting from earlier, got himself quite a few bruises trying to restrain Dean from that fit he was having. But he can't see that Dean is hurt at all. This Dean, right in front of him, is like if Dean were carved out of wood. He doesn't move or react the same way and he's using additional caution when he does move. Clearly, there won't be any more outbursts, like that first time. Dean always feels uncomfortable and sad when he snaps at Sam without reason. Now he looks like he's physically restraining himself from any possible extreme reaction.

Sam sighs and drops his hand.

"Look, I don't trust that those demons went away. I'm gonna put some more salt down, check the wards-"

"Goofer dust, Sammy. He's been training more dogs down there."

Sam nods. "Good idea. Be back in a little while, okay? You got enough water?"

"'M fine. Go."

Dean listens down the hall, far as he can, to Sam pacing away and upstairs.

Dean sits back when the sound has faded completely.

He tries to call up anger. Tries to ease into it like warm water. It's there. Within reach.

How to dip his toes in? How to really _get there?_

He calls up Crowley's smarmy face. Restraining Dean in his office. Forcing him to see things he didn't want to, keep company with despicable fucking hellhounds, peeling off the layers of Dean's concern and humanity and replacing them with missions and murders. Dean could feel it. The way he was losing being human. He was growing numb. Maybe not callous and snarky like other demons. But, compelled by the Mark of Cain, he lived for moments of murder. And simply existed in between.

Dean can imagine that a solid regime of torture was not far off. Perhaps a refresher course for himself and then Crowley _really_ letting him loose on the world. Maybe he would have grown a taste for it, like the killing. Maybe Crowley would have built him into something new. Something so opposite from everything he'd worked for.

That pretty much does it.

There's enough pure rage left in that well for him to soak. For him to yank the blade back to him, a hundred times more efficient than that wobbly trick he did, like he was calling it to his hand with the Force when it would get knocked away from him as a human. He's nearly perfected it. Rather than thinking it into his hand, he can call it up and blink it into his presence.

This trick is all his own.  
When he opens his eyes, he reconfirms that: the blade sits on the bed in front of him.

He's still capable of so much. Even if he's losing some of those extra senses.

He swallows. His head is starting to throb. He tries to blink his eyes back to white and they only go one at a time, like when he first woke up in the bunker. Shit.

He crawls forward and reaches for the bucket that Sam brought him after the first fit. This time, when he retches, he loses the water, the pills nearly undissolved, and a good amount of blood.

That's just fucking fantastic.

He pushes the bucket aside, plops his pillow down on top of the blade, and pushes it all back to the end of the bed. He rests, then. With the First Blade near at hand.

It doesn't make him feel better. He doesn't know what would.

«»

He gets an idea. Can't believe he didn't think of it before.

After all. Only someone with the power of a knight can really harm a knight.

«»

Sitting with his back to the door doesn't help with the whole Sam Not Freaking Out plan.

"Dean? _Dean!_ " he barks, alarmed.

"No big deal, Sammy," he says through gritted teeth. "Get me a bandage, would you? I don't know how fast this will heal."

"Fuck, no, Dean, stop," he barges into the devil's trap and around the mattress to Dean's side. His hands come up to stop Dean, to grab the First Blade - something.

But quicker than Dean can stop himself, he's got the bloody blade to Sam's throat and they're both stock still.

Dean takes a deep breath. Backs his hand down slowly.

"Okay," Sam says lightly on a breath. "Okay."

"It's working," Dean chokes out, "I can tell. Get a fucking bandage."

"Drop the blade. Stop and give it to me."

Dean shakes his head and returns the blade to the inside of his arm where he's almost done hacking the Mark off, "I have to finish carving it out while I still don't feel it that bad," he props his arm on the bucket and continues carving, ignoring the sting of it. "Get a bandage," he repeats.

Sam curses and bounds up, out, to grab a med kit.

Dean can see, through his black eyes, how deep he has to dig to pull the roots of the Mark out of himself. They're just loose enough at this point to be pulled. The demon parts of him unsteady and getting a little weaker all the time. It does hurt. But he doesn't have the same connection to hurt that he used to. He can work through the pain.

He hears running. He has to be quick. He can hear himself groan as he removes all he can from the muscle of his forearm.

Cas slams into the room shouting at him just as he drops the blade, relief, blood pouring into the bucket under his elbow. He'd had the sense to wrap one of the chains around his upper arm as tight as he could get it, but the amount he carved off himself still means he's making a mess.

Cas tosses the blade into the corner of the room and grabs Dean's arm, wrapping a sheet around it. Sam comes barreling back into the room just as the shocks run through Dean again. More intense and blinding than the first time, chucking his body around the circle of the devil's trap. Somewhere in the chaos, he loses consciousness, black eyes, smiling lips.

«»

In the chapel, they give him a sheet and a pillow but no mattress. His body pulses in mild pain pretty much everywhere. The sheet he's lying on is atop a spray-painted devil's trap, the lines laid thick and taking up most the available floor space.

His arm is heavily bandaged. Both his ankles and wrists back in manacles bolted to the floor.

There are grand columns in the chapel, and the ceiling soars to a point, above. The corners are rounded except the corner where a confessional box sits. And the stained glass is hanging loose, by chains, instead of set into the walls. Chandeliers bounce light through them where there's no windows or sunshine to do so.

The short pews are pushed to the sides, all other furniture piled into a room off to the side.

Sam tromps down the stairs and into the room.

He doesn't look happy to see Dean.

Dean blinks and rolls to a sit. They got him into a new shirt, at least.

He tries to say something witty. Nothing comes out except a wheezing sound. He clears his throat and tries, instead, "Water?"

Sam's turned to piling up some books so he blindly reaches for a refilled bottle of water and chucks it behind him.

Dean really does try to catch it and it crashes into his forearm and pain whites-out his vision for a second, after which he finds himself wordlessly screaming into the pillow next to him.

"Fuck, shit, goddamn fuck, sorry. You're a real _fucking asshole_ ," Sam strides into the circle and pulls Dean upright, rubbing his upper arm in apology, passing the loose bottle of water to Dean's other hand and uncapping it for him.

Dean takes a long swig and then puts it down to breathe, harsh, crashing his head into Sam's chest and coughing.

He tastes blood when he coughs.

Sam hugs him, hand to the back of his head, still cursing him and apologizing in turns.

Dean can feel Sam's hand in his hair.

He hurts all over and he can feel it.

Yes.

He sits up and starts pulling at the bandages.

"Would you fucking stop!" Sam hollers, exasperated.

"I have to know how much of it grew back." The muscle there doesn't feel full, but it also doesn't feel like he's missing as much flesh as he was.

Sam bites his tongue and bats Dean's hand away. He unwraps the arm himself and reveals that there's still a lot of damage, but yeah, not as much as he started with.

The outline, like a backwards F, it's still there, faint, in the bloody meat of his arm. This is weird, the stop-and-start of his abilities, the healing and not-healing, the invulnerability shorting out and suddenly leaving him with access to his raw nerves.

It's like the process of him becoming a demon wasn't… completed or something. Like his body keeps trying to turn it off but sometimes the power surges again.

What's left of the Mark is not bold. Looking down at his arm and not having to see it is its own kind of relief.

"Okay?" Sam asks, clearly sick of indulging Dean on the point. Dean nods.

Sam splashes more alcohol on it and replaces the bandage, hasty to get it back to healing.

"That was really fucking stupid."

"Or really finally something smart."

"Getting rid of it won't be that easy, Dean, you can't just chop it off."

"It won't be this easy, either," Dean motions to the chapel and the set-up around him. "Maybe with both half-measures we'll actually get somewhere."

Sam rolls his eyes and stands to go finish prepping.

"This isn't a half-measure. This is heavy-duty spellwork. We don't know what injecting Cas's blood into you will do in the long-term. Especially since you seem to be losing some of your... of how you are now. So we're gonna be more careful about it than we were with Crowley. More hygienic, too." Sam presents a marker and comes back to Dean's side. He peels open an alcohol swab, rubs it over Dean's neck, then feels around it and draws a circle where Cas should place the needle.

Dean can feel all of it. It kind of amazes him. He hopes the numbness doesn't come back, pain or no.

"Dean? You're smirking. It's creeping me out."

"Yeah. Well. Uh. Are you gonna be here?"

"In and out. I think I should keep a better eye on the perimeter. There were more demons out there. Why? You don't want me here?"

"Uh, I donn- Not really," Dean amends.

Sam sniffs, considers. "You know I've seen this before. I've been through it all once."

"Yeah, I saw what a mess Crowley was at the end, too. I mean, Sammy, if it goes wrong--"

"It's not gonna go wrong. We're gonna be patient with it. If eight hours doesn't do the trick, we'll go for more. We'll end it when you know you're ready. And I'll be here to stitch you up. You didn't exactly make my job easier, by the way," he points at Dean's arm.

"I know you won't buy this. But I had to. And I'm sorry."

Sam sweeps his hair behind his ears. And nods.

Cas comes downstairs after that. Dean notices that he's in jeans, too. He looks more relaxed.

Until he aims a pissed-off glare at Dean.

He accepts a page from Sam with thanks and hands something else over. Sam straightens everything up and then motions at the confessional.

"Go for it Cas."

Castiel nods and blows out a deep breath. Then turns and locks himself in the little room.

Sam presents Dean with two of the antibiotics. "Let's try this again," he passes them down, and then dusts off his hands. "So I think that's it. I'll let you guys get to it. Um. Good luck? I guess."

Dean keeps his lips tight. Nods once.

"Positive thoughts couldn't hurt, Dean. At least try not to be completely pessimistic about it. I'll come back around in a while."

"Okay."

Sam slaps him on the shoulder before he goes.

It's a while before Cas is out of the confessional.

«»

Dean tosses aside the bed sheet and sits on the pillow on the hard tile floor, in the center of the devil's trap. The cold, hard floor doesn't bother him now, but it in a few hours, it might. As he crawls closer to human. Sam once recalled the entirety of Crowley's ordeal for him. At least they won't have Abaddon busting in on them just when they're making progress. But Dean realizes he might becoming a moping little mess. He doesn't like emotional displays. He feels pretty solid at the moment. He's willing to give the cure a try. Maybe he'll be able to hold it together.

He concentrates. On not feeling angry. On suppressing the pain that's echoing through him, from his chest and his arm. He doesn't wanna snap at Cas. He _won't_ hurt Cas.

It will work.  
It might not work.

It probably won't work.

Inhale. Exhale.

What if the injections set him off? Make him angry? Get him rattling out of the chains?

Then Cas will call Sam down.

This isn't a part of a trial. Cas isn't deteriorating. He'll be able to finish it. There will just be the hour of waiting between each dose. It'll be a long day.

And what if Cas is still too angelic for this to work?

Maybe Dean will have to snap the chains and…

The confessional opens before he can plot further.

Cas never really looked more settled in himself after doing holy things. This 'purification' through confession is no different. He looks more pissed at Dean coming out of the box than he did going in.

Cas marches right over to the supplies and picks up a clean white package, opening it to reveal a fresh syringe. He does not hesitate to plunge it into his wrist and draw out his own blood.

He taps and squeezes it carefully before coming to Dean's side. He places a hand on the side of Dean's head and tilts it slightly. Orders, dark, gravelly, firm, "Do _not_ move." He lines up the needle and carefully makes the first injection.

Dean can hardly feel it except a sweep of warmth over his left side. Which might be entirely imaginary.

Cas draws a tray over beside where he's knelt, cleans and bandages the spot.

They're being a little _too_ careful if you ask him, but Cas isn't in a mood that Dean really wants to fuck with.

To emphasize the point, when he pulls back, all done, he knocks a sweeping blow at the back of Dean's head. It's light, a reprimand. But Dean feels _that_ , too. And so it's more comforting than chastising.

"If I'd told you guys what I was gonna do, you would have stopped me. You don't know that this whole thing is gonna detach the Mark from me. Shit, Cas, I mean, what if we go through this whole thing and we just have to do it every few months because the Mark keeps--"

Cas grabs him by the jaw and jerks his head around, effectively stopping the speech.

"It pains us. _Wounds_ Sam and I, when you have so little faith in us." He releases Dean's jaw and turns to pick up his stuff and set an alarm on his phone.

"One hour," he says.

"Right. Fine."

And, like before, Cas just sinks to the ground outside the circle and stares at the opposite wall.

"Cas," Dean says.

Cas doesn't respond.

"You don't know it, though, do you?" he can't help but prod. "You can't know that this will work. You can't be sure."

Cas ticks his head slightly to glare at him. "Why can't you even give this a chance? I thought we were supposed to deal with problems one at a time. Handle them as they come."

"It was given to me by somebody else, Cas. I don't think it's gonna just disappear."

"And carving it off. That's a sound decision. Because Cain carved it off to give to you."

"Well, no."

Cas flashes a 'told you so' face at him.

Dean sighs. Mutters under his breath about how this is ridiculous.

Cas actually slaps his hand over a book and grips it like he's gonna whip it at Dean.

Then his face falls. And he drops the book back on top of the pile.

"Do you remember what Alistair said? When he told you about the first seal?"

Dean has to snag his water back up for this, to wet his suddenly-dry throat. He rubs the ache in his chest again.

"He said I broke the first seal. That the first seal was broken 'when a Righteous Man sheds blood in Hell.'

"'As he breaks, so shall it break.'"

Dean completes the words. Because he knows them. Because they're carved into his skull.

"Did he tell you he tried it out on your father first?"

Dean blinks. "Yeah. And 'daddy's little girl broke in 30.' I was no match for him. No surprise there."

Cas drapes his hands over his folded knees.

"Dean. If your father had broken. If his decisions in Hell had broken the first seal. If he had agreed to start torturing, had been the first in that family line to shed blood in Hell, he would have been the Righteous Man. He would have been the man of prophecy foretold. And he wasn't. He would have been resurrected and brought forth to serve as Michael's Sword. He wasn't."

Cas grips his hands in the fabric of his jeans and releases them. "It always struck me," he shakes his head. "That part of the prophecy. Because you were right all along. Not even destiny is concrete. If it were, why tell tales of the unnamed Righteous Man instead of the elder Winchester, Dean, who was destined to strike down the plot of the apocalypse? Why not be specific?" He waits for Dean to meet his eyes. "Why have a key to Lucifer's cage if he was only expected to be released for the one event? Why have two possible Righteous Men? Two possible vessels for Michael? _Three_ , counting your father if he had first fulfilled the prophecy?

"Dean, what you said before? About being meant to be this? You weren't even meant to be the Righteous Man. You weren't meant to be Michael's vessel. You have smashed every expectation of your destiny and walked right past it. How can you then believe that this, this form? Is what you were meant to be? This is what you settle on? Over all those other choices? Brother and Sword and savior? _This_ is how you see yourself. When we see Dean Winchester."

Cas swallows and looks away.

"When Sam sees his family, the man who as good as raised him. When I see the man who would give everything to save every stranger he's never known. Someone I've come to love. You then have little regard for what we see and instead choose that you would die a servant to the King of Hell, a Knight of Hell, a Cain incarnate. You have to realize. When you say that about yourself. You're saying you reject everything we love about you. And why we care about you. You're saying they're nothing in the face of this split-second decision you were forced to make."

Okay.  
Dean sounds like a real asshole.  
And he wishes he could blame it on being a demon.

He really can't.

Cas bites his lip and shakes his head.

"How do you feel? Does anything hurt?"

"Uh." Dean has to think about it for a long moment. "No. Not more than. Than before."

"Well." Cas takes a deep breath. "If you care at all to hear my theory, I think that your body -- your very _human_ body and your unshakably devoted human soul -- is rejecting the parts of it that have become demon. I think your body is rejecting the change. And that it will heal itself as we apply the cure. So." He shrugs. "You might feel worse before you feel better. It might fluctuate, but yes. I do believe this will work."

"Maybe." Dean gives in a little. "Maybe I didn't have time to let go of the Mark. After I didn't need it anymore. By the time I killed Abaddon, I guess I wanted to hold on to it. It was too late for me to _want_ to let it go."

Cas blinks. "You don't want it anymore?" he asks like the right answer is

"No," Dean says.

Cas smiles just a little. "Maybe that's how it works, then."

So. Okay.

«»

The real problems start with the third injection.

Cas injects his blood into Dean's neck and Dean begins losing blood from the wound that reopens on his surface, the one tearing his chest open, a backwards stab, from the inside, out.

Cas gets done putting a fresh band-aid over the injection site when Dean sees the wet spot darkening the front of the gray shirt they gave him.

"Cas. Cas, I think you need to get Sam back down here," he tries in as calm a voice as he can.

Cas slides the tray aside and starts to ask why when he looks up and sees for himself. He grabs the sheet Dean had tossed aside and bunches it in his hand, pushes it against Dean's chest and tells him to keep it there. Then he runs for the stairs, shouting for Sam.

Dean sits by himself, holding the sheet there. It doesn't hurt like the first time. It does _hurt_ but not with the full and surprising brunt of a sword stroke. The sting of it had been growing over the past couple hours. Not enough to alert Cas to it, but, if Cas's theory was right, if all they assumed was right, he knew the wound was opening. He'd pretty much accepted that this was coming. Perhaps it would heal back up, still subject to his limited (and fading) invulnerability. Or perhaps he would bleed out in the hours between injections.

He stares at the ground in front of him.

There's a footprint marring a line of the star in the devil's trap.

It occurs to him that he hasn't tried to leave one of these circles yet.

He thinks he probably could.

Well. He definitely could now, with a break in the line.

Sam beats Cas down the stairs and grabs the first aid kid on his way into the circle. "Get the ankle chains off him," he requests of Cas, who moves to get the keys.

Sam helps him lay down and pushes up his shirt, then starts to work his own magic, cleaning the wound with things that almost sting. Trying to close it up and dress it. Dean was never the real expert at this. And if it gets to the size and depth it was before -- not just this little beginning of a slice -- they really won't be able to fix it on their own. They're just not equipped for something that serious.

Sam looks as terrified as the first time, underneath the quiet concentration.

He won't ever get over it, you know? How fucking proud he is of Sammy.

Sam's concentration makes him smile until

"That's totally unsettling, Dean, please stop."

He straightens up his face as best he can and watches Sam's hands work.

"Sam," Cas says, and points to where he's kneeling over Dean. To Dean's arm, where it sits beside Sam's knee. The arm stopped bleeding soon after he stopped carving and Sam dressed it. But now two lines of red have seeped through the bandages. It was healing. Now it's not. His body is yo-yoing between human and demon.

Sam curses and wraps the sodden sheet around it, shifting to put slight pressure on it with his other knee while he finishes dealing with the chest wound. It's bleeding but it doesn't hurt when Sam kneels on it. So fucking weird. His body can't make up its damn mind.

Cas sits in the circle, too, kneeling at Dean's other side. As Sam moves on to his right arm, Cas grabs for the pillow and props up Dean's head, then takes his left hand.

Dean knows Sam sees because he glances over, distracted for only a brief moment.

When it's all the way unwrapped, Dean has to look.

The outline of the Mark still sits in his flesh. Even under the oozing lines he recognizes as the cuts he'd made into himself, reopening. Will the meat in his arm just fall off again?

He lets Cas's hand go to flash up and grab Sam's elbow. "Hold on. What if. What if," he pauses, Sam motions at him with bloody fingers, impatient, not prepared to stop his ministrations. "It was an angel blade," Dean points at himself.

"Yes," Sam says, almost looking angry. _Yes, you were stabbed with an angel blade, you ass._

"What if. We carve the Mark off with an angel blade. If it can kill--"

An impatient sigh at his side from Cas.

"It killed you and brought the de- I don't think that's how it _works_ , Dean. And I'm not letting you chop into your fucking arm again!" Sam shakes his hand off and keeps working to redress his arm, covering the outline of the Mark of Cain once more, concealing it.

"It was just a suggestion," Dean mutters.

"Save it," Sam sounds tired.

"So, uh, that was exciting," Dean says, still lacking the appropriate amount of horror for Sam's taste. Sam finishes bandaging him up a little roughly. "You didn't get to set an alarm, Cas. Are you sure you remember--"

"Ten past every hour," Cas barrels right over him. "Here," he stuffs the rest of the first aid supplies away and stands with Sam. "When's the last time you checked outside?"

"Ugh, yeah. Outside," he sounds _really_ exhausted. "The wards are all up and fine. No one's disturbed the ground. But there are guys just..." he twirls a finger in the air, "walking around in circles out there. I can't be sure, but. Um. I think Dean was right about the hellhounds. I think I heard growling. I'm gonna go check everything again, now."

"Don't unnecessarily expose yourself," Cas cautions.

"I'll be fine." He points down at Dean. "Don't let him have any sharp objects."

Cas huffs and nods, because that's a given.

"Yell if you need me," Sam says over his shoulder, walking back upstairs.

Cas rolls his head on his shoulders and turns to bandage up his own arm, where he's been taking the blood from.

"You got paint?" Dean asks, still prone on the floor.

Cas darts a curious look at him, so he points to the broken line.

Cas narrows his eyes, considers it a while. Instead of locating a spray can, he pulls a flannel shirt on over his t-shirt, lets it fall over his wrist, and comes into the circle again.

He sits down by Dean's right side and pulls Dean's arm out flat to inspect Sam's bandaging.

He traces his fingers further down, past the lines of cloth and over the skin on the underside of Dean's arm, following the veins with his fingers.

"I can't feel that too much. It's weird, you know?" Dean says.

"What, this?" Cas runs a finger down his arm again. Dean shakes his head.

Cas runs three fingers down his arm, pressing. "I can feel that, mostly," Dean says.

Cas nods. He picks up Dean's hand in both his and squeezes. "Yeah," Dean nods.

Cas smiles a little. He frees one hand to place it at Dean's neck, at the pulse.

"Am I alive?" he asks.

"Very much." He moves his hand to where the bandage now covers the blade wound. Puts his hand over Dean's chest. "You need a new shirt."

"Might get messier," Dean shrugs.

"Mm." Cas keeps his hand there for a minute before sliding away.

"Can I ask you something? You said Metatron could refuel you?"

Cas frowns. "I don't think I believe him. Or if he could, it would be at the expense of my brothers' or sisters' lives. I thought." He pauses for a moment. "I thought I'd like to remain an angel. Just be an angel. But that. I couldn't do that and."

Cas is silent. Dean thinks he can fill in the gaps. He couldn't help Sam and be an angel. Couldn't help them both and be an angel. Finally had to make the choice.

That's crap. "You know, I could say the same shit about you. What makes you think it's okay to choose this over being an angel? Having grace and being powerful, unstoppable. Maybe we wanted that for you. And you choose to die this way."

Cas shakes his head.

"I wanted to be an angel. That's all I wanted to be. And being an angel isn't just grace and power. It's the universal acceptance of torture and mind control as a source of familial bond. I wanted to be an angel but without those things. And that wouldn't happen without proper leadership. But I don't want followers, don't want to be that leader. I don't have to fix everything." He runs three fingers down Dean's arm again. "I could let the grace and the power go. Return to humanity. Where the familial bond is-"

"Poking my arm on the cold ground of a chapel in an underground bunker while demons circle outside and injecting your friend with your own blood for eight hours. Yeah. I can totally see the appeal."

"I was going to say microwave burritos and shotgun shells full of salt and memory foam mattresses and knocking over your 800 hair products whenever I try to go brush my teeth."

"Like half of those bottles are Sam's."

"Like _two_ of those bottles are Sam's, he barely even tries it just _sprouts_ out of his head that way."

Dean laughs, a deep belly laugh that jostles his chest wound and he doesn't even care.

He hasn't laughed in so fucking long.

Cas smiles down on him. Full smile, ridiculous teeth, still idly plucking at each of Dean's fingers, sweeping his own up the crooked lines of Dean's veins.

«»

Cas stays impatient, close, after the fourth injection. He doesn't untense until it's almost time for the fifth.

Sam comes down to check and see if anything's reopened. There's no new bleeding. The pain is still there. Dean makes one more campaign to get Cas to dig into his arm with an angel blade and that drives Sam away in disgust.

Before he heads back upstairs, he warns Cas that it looks like rain. That makes them both look dour.

"Maybe the rain will get the demons to look for shelter?" Dean offers.

"We buried a line of goofer dust and a line of salt in the ground outside the entrance. We don't want them to wash out before the dirt has settled. The paint on the wards keeps having to be refreshed. It will probably run off the walls and stairs."

Oh.

"Have you felt Crowley summon you recently?"

"Uh. No. Should we clean up the lines just in case?" Dean points to the line with the footprint through it on the star.

Instead of answering, Cas puts the needles away, grabs a snack bar from a bag by the door, and comes to sit by Dean again. He takes a bite and sets the bar aside, chewing while he reaches for Dean's arm again.

He squeezes over the bandage and Dean gasps.

"Fuck." The pain is suddenly back.

Cas raises an eyebrow in alarm.

"Hurts," Dean says, sitting up, trying to pull out of his grasp.

Cas doesn't let go. "Lie still, Dean."

"No. What are you doing?" he yanks again. "Man, why the fuck have you been so goddamn touchy-feely since I got back, anyway, what is _with_ that?" He wriggles away from Cas.

Cas drops his hands to his lap and allows Dean to sit up.

When he has Dean's full attention again, he straightens, chin up, spine straight. "Because I wasn't 'touchy-feely' before, when I should have been."

"'Shoulda been,' what does that even _mean?_ " Dean cracks his neck from lying on the hard ground and cradles his arm in close against himself.

"I should have told you before. Should have been better at expressing what you mean to me. Should have been clear that, often, when I acted, I acted on my compulsion to be near _you_."

Dean stills. Gapes at him.

"Dude. I don't get you, man. Fuck. There's so much you could have had. It doesn't make sense. Goddamnit, Cas, I wanted more for you, not _this_ ," he nearly hisses, motioning to the whole array of their life in disgust. "Why the hell would you stick yourself with me? Is that what that shit has been? That 'I love you' business? Are you _seriously_ gonna condemn yourself to my shitty little life?"

Cas's eyes narrow. "I happen to think highly of your life."

"I happen to think you're a moron for that. My life is a sewer," Dean spits back. "I'm fucking _condemned_ Cas, what don't you _get_ about that? You know what a condemned building is? It's shit stacked loose enough to wash away. It's a rat hole and they tear 'em down to make way for something new and cleaner and better. _I'm a fucking waste_ ," he's nearly roaring in Cas's face at this point and doesn't really recognize that until he stops and has to sway back, out of his personal space.

Suddenly, he's a little disoriented.

There's that sting at his center and when he rubs at it, it _hurts_. He's distracted enough by this that Cas can reach out and snag his arm and start winding away the bandage from it to reveal-

The flesh healing again. In misshapen and jagged pieces, but healing. The Mark still faded, not vivid red as before.

They both stare. Somehow he's healing but he hurts. His body has completely wigged out.

Dean tries to turn his eyes to black to see down and into himself. To see if there's a change in the lava field of his insides.

It's not fucking working. It's NOT fucking working.

He's hyperventilating before he knows it, Cas kneeling into his space, placing a hand over his chest, trying to get him to lay down again.

Dean clings to that hand and presses it hard against his chest wound.

"Alright, Dean. Talk. Does it hurt?" Cas demands.

"Yes. I can feel it, I can-- most. Almost. I can feel more of it. What the hell."

"Sam said the change would be gradual."

"Gradual fuck," Dean splutters, "it's all over the place."

"What else has changed?"

"Well, you said it, I can't feel the summons. I don't know if he has. I can't. My eyes. I can't see."

"You can't see?" Cas repeats, alarm ratcheting up in his voice.

"Not-- I mean, I can see fine, I can't. Can't see everything _else_ ," he says with meaning. "I can't--"

The shock of lightning is instantly debilitating this time. Without the devil's trap properly lined, his body is propelled as far outside of it as the chains will let him go.

A solid body blow against the tiles knocks him out.

«»

Sam is the first thing he sees. "Lucky you," he smiles lightly, "time warp. You missed the sixth shot."

Dean groans. He doesn't see Cas in his limited field of view.

"He had to go eat something finally. He'll be back," Sam is still smiling. "Here. Check this out. He helps Dean roll onto his back again and lifts his shirt. No bandage is necessary. The small area of the stab wound that was opening above his ribs is a puckered pink line. Still looking raw and with Sam's stitches and tape over it, but strangely... very much healing.

"That's good," Dean agrees.

"And you didn't puke this time. But you freaked Cas right out. He said you coughed out a bunch of smoke."

Holy shit. Dean blinks hard. He tries one more time to turn his eyes over to black. It's frustrating, almost like he's forgotten how. And his vision doesn't budge. Doesn't change.

"You gotta talk, man, tell me how you feel. Water?" he offers a bottle up and Dean takes it, curiously watching his own fingers tremble. Sam steadies him and puts it directly into his hand, helping him uncap it.

He drinks deep and relieved. Water feels seriously fucking good right now.

"What about food? You wanna try that?"

He doesn't yet feel the gnawing of hunger. But the antibiotics did stay down. "I donno. Maybe I should try?" he says, voice strained.

"Sure. I've got crackers with no salt, okay? Just in case."

When Sam rises to cross the room, Dean can see the freshly restored line on the tile floor, the devil's trap fixed and complete. He... kind of can't wait to be able to walk out of it on his own power.

While Sam's up, Dean looks down and starts to pry the bandage off his arm again.

But just touching his arm, it screams in pain. Bolts of it, almost as bad as the ones that throw him around. He hisses from it and carefully holds his arm to his chest again.

Sam hears and throws a look over his shoulder from the stack of supplies he's picking through on a pew.

"You okay?"

Dean gasps but nods.

With a lot more care, concentrating on steadying the arm he's trying to unwrap, Dean pulls at the bandages again.

Is the Mark refusing to be budged? Fighting against the cure?

Suddenly, he reconsiders. Doesn't want Sam to have to see if the Mark of Cain is reemerging on his skin.

He does a clumsy job of rewrapping it as Sam walks back over. But when he sits, his brother simply moves his fingers out of the way and takes it apart again.

"Sam, don't," he starts.

Sam shakes his head and gently removes the whole strip of cloth.

The skin is red and angry. Almost infected looking. But the muscle of his arm is pulling back together.

"You hit it when you went flailing around. Cas had to hold you down on your right side. It probably should-

"Hurt," Dean finishes for him.

Hope suddenly lurches out of the depths of the cooling tar inside of him.

He realizes that what he's feeling is the healing process. It began to heal earlier, when he was still at least a little powered-up, when he was still numb, and he's suddenly close enough to human to feel the pain of the muscle and skin trying to regrow and attach and recover. The Mark is still an outline, like a snail trail on his skin.

"More antibiotics," Sam mutters. "But with something in your stomach," he reaches out and opens a packet of crackers, handing one to Dean. "Try it."

Dean gives it a shot. They're mostly tasteless. "I want a beer."

"No you don't." Sam works on disinfecting and rewrapping his arm. He works slow so he doesn't jostle anything too hard.

He gives Dean more pills and asks what he thinks of the crackers. Dean merely shrugs. "We got any whiskey?"

"No," Sam rises and sets everything aside again, but comes back into the circle with a pack of cards.

"I think I yelled at Cas," Dean says, half-way through the second game. "He's probably not coming back. Prolly pissed at me."

"He'll be back. He's watching episodes of _jackass_ on my computer. I think he kinda makes himself more confused on purpose." Sam folds his hand and shrugs. "You'll be able to fix that now, though. He knows a whole lot, but he's still not so great at everyday media application. I think he's counting on you to help him make sense of it all."

When Dean still doesn't respond, Sam gathers up the cards. "I'm gonna send him back down. You've still got a little while but. I mean, he _understands_ , Dean. But if it would make you feel better to apologize...?"

Dean keeps looking down at where the cards were once spread in front of him. He almost shrugs. It's more like he sinks a little bit more into himself.

"How do I apologize for all this shit, Sammy?" he asks. Quiet, lost. "How do I even begin? I did this to myself. I held on for all that time like I was the fucking prime example of our entire race. Like it was human superiority or... something. I donno. I gave him such shit. _Made him choose._ He shouldn't have had to. None of this should have... Everything's so fucked," he settles on.

Sam crouches and palms the back of his head so he'll look up.

"You wanna change things?"

"Things?" Dean asks.

"Things. Everything. You wanna change how we do the job? Or what we do for a living? Or just how you used to be?"

"I donno. Yeah. Maybe all of that."

"That's good, Dean. That's all we need. You gotta wanna change. So we'll change stuff, okay? We'll start with fixing you. Get you back. Maybe better than before, huh? And then we'll decide what changes next, okay?" he pats Dean on the shoulder and rises.

"Okay, Sammy," Dean agrees still sounding like he's not sure where to start.

Sam smiles a little. Because he's seen this before. He knows where to start. And unlike Crowley, he knows Dean and Cas will finish it. They have to finish it to get Dean back. So he turns to go get the catalyst for that change. It's almost time for Cas to fill another syringe.

«»

Dean hurts a lot more after the seventh shot. He lies down for a while and just feels the thrum, like a burgeoning headache, but all over his body. Everywhere he's taken a bit of a beating in the past few weeks. The cuffs come off and it's great that he's not chained up anymore. But he couldn't move if he wanted to.

Some lines have shown up on his neck and hands. Claw marks from one of the victims he held down last week. But they don't bleed, they just appear livid and red.

And his arm. It feels... like he chopped into it. You know. Because he did.

The center of his chest hurts so much he wonders if it will be permanent.

But he doesn't ask for painkillers. It's so. Awakening. His body is so alive.

During his first tour in the pit, the damage they inflicted when torturing him was not done to his physical body. They made him think, at first, that the damage was being done to his form, so they could worm their way deeper and start taking pieces of his soul. He came out of it feeling so empty. Like every time he said 'no' they'd taken pieces to pass around and gnaw on. And it left him with the bare minimum to function when he resurfaced.

He'd thought he was barely alive, and he'd thought that Famine had confirmed this. He was unaffected, like all those demons who stood around Famine, feeling no compulsion to binge on anything. Demons lack what is necessary to be hungry. To ache and want.

He carried that feeling with him, for a long time after, thinking he was void of anything like humanity. Carried it through the apocalypse and straight into Lisa's house and even after. But it was just carryover torture. Just lasting psychological damage. Yes, they'd done permanent things to him. Yes, it helped him progress into demonic life faster when he had the Mark to ease himself into it.

He had an awful taste of that blank existence. But it didn't keep.

He knows he's still in here somewhere. Another horseman, Death, was the one who told him that the soul can be beaten, brutalized, tortured, bruised. Not broken. Not just broken off and passed around. They didn't take those pieces and keep them in Hell. He has all his pieces, they've just been covered by the ash, by the fall of debris, by the volcanic explosions that have rocked his life. He knows that under the superheated rock, somewhere inside a black shell, his soul is truly still there. He knows this because he still cares for Sammy. And because Cas has been touching him and it feels.

Like groping in the dark for a flashlight and someone finally placed one in his hand.

That... totally wasn't a dick joke.

It hurts when he laughs at himself. His body rolls once with it where he's lying and- ow. Ow all over.

They haven't spoken since Cas came back down into the chapel. He tidied up, administered the next dose of blood, and bandaged both their needle marks in silence.

Dean must have whined a little in the back of his throat from how it hurt, because Cas appears, looming above him before he sits at Dean's side.

Cas focuses his stare on Dean's face and slides his hand up to lay over Dean's chest.

There's heat in that palm. Dean realizes the tiles below him are cold and Cas is warm.

He feels the steady downward pressure of that hand and wonders at Cas. Who is ancient. Who, for so long, waded through battlefields and dark buildings beside Dean, picking off demons left and right. Lighting up and tossing away these bratty little troublemakers like it was nothing.

It really was nothing. Cas was a towering force in a deceptively dumpy suit.

And here he is, pressing lightly on Dean, holding him together. Being gentle with a withering little spark of a demon. Someone he could snuff out without a thought.

He covers Cas's splayed fingers with his palm. Holds the hand down tight on his own chest, wraps his other hand around Cas's wrist.

Cas used to decimate demon hoards for a living, and didn't break a sweat doing it.  
And here he is, busting his ass, being patient with one because he knows, inside that crackled shell of black, is Dean Winchester.

Cas said he was touching Dean because he should have done it before.

And he mourned. And he says things Dean doesn't hear often. Casual as you like. As if he intends for it to become habit. _Goodnight, I love you_.

Seven shots so far.  
He aches. He wants the mattress back. There's a pinch in his abdomen that says six crackers and some pills wasn't _nearly_ enough after months of not eating.

Dean sits up under Cas's hand and grips it, indicating he could use some help getting there.

His legs feel awesome.  
Awesome like, _help, I'm drunk and I don't know whose front porch this is but that potted plant has gotta be soft enough to sleep on_.

It feels like shit. He stands anyway, with Cas, and walks to the edge of the circle where he runs into a soft resistance. A padded cell instead of a steel wall. Still solid. He pats his hand against it. He's still not getting out. But the spell keeping him in is fraying at the edges.

"Dean?" Cas finally has to ask.

"Can't do it."

Cas's got hands under his arms now, lowering him to the pillow again. "It's alright," he says, certain. "An hour more."

He sounds a little nervous.

Dean's not so keen on getting a bloody slap across the face himself. He also isn't looking forward to the feeling. There'd only been the one film reel, of the failed attempt. Of that burning light, baking the old woman to a crisp and ripping her open from the inside.

The other was a recording but he remembers the sound, mostly. Remembers the demon-turned-man weeping for the horrible shit he'd done.

The spell will, maybe, zap his body into solid rock again; no more soft lava, no more smoke.  
A return to the good ole misery of humanity.

If he lives.

Cas sets him down and lets go.

"Do you want Sam to be here?"

"Yeah," he says without thinking. Prefers Sam around all the time, never mind when he's panicking about some holy light frying his insides.

"I mean. For the last part," Cas clarifies.

No. No, no.

Sam will be here anyway. Sam will want to be here.

"Ask him," he decides to say instead. Leave it up to Sam.

"Okay. Do you…" Cas's eyes look around as he thinks. "Do you want more water?"

Dean shakes his head.

"I have the crackers," Cas offers.

Dean couldn't do that right now, either, even if he is getting hungrier.

"I'd almost ask if you want to pray with me," Cas shrugs, at a loss.

He knows that's not something Dean would do. And if he ever did, he knows who he'd be praying to. That wouldn't help anymore.

It makes Dean wonder if Cas prayed to his brothers and sisters or what he did when he confessed himself. But he doesn't ask.

How does he do this? After fucking things up so bad how does he rain back into their lives and leave them scrambling like this? Or maybe leave them _for good_ in this frantic and bloody way?

Why does Cas keep reaching for his hands when he knows that he's just gonna burn away that fire-tempered warrior and be left with Dean's pathetic ashes?

How did he con him into caring so much?

Fuck, he hurts. It's still surging up in intensity. He's been sitting up for a few minutes, mirroring Cas, just cross-legged and quietly freaking out.

His arm hurts awfully bad. Worse than the death blow in his chest. He deserves it. Hindsight tells him that carving up his arm was, actually, a goddamn ridiculous move.

Cas knows he means it when he mumbles, "I'm sorry." He knows it's not disingenuous or some vague, blanket apology. He's sorry for putting them through the last six months. He's sorry he can't bring himself to believe that this will work.

Cas doesn't bullshit him, doesn't shush him or say he doesn't have to be sorry. He says he knows.

Dean withers as he sits there. Cas scoots next to him to put an arm around his back and pick up the slack.

Exhaustion is starting to set in and Dean rests against Castiel's shoulder, forehead pressed into the crook of his neck, Cas's arm curved around his shoulders. 

«»

It's time. Cas has memorized the words. He knows the spell and it will roll off his tongue as fluid as every other language he knows. He understands the meaning behind the words and maybe he'll mean them more than any Man of Letters ever did.

Sam sits on the stairs for a while before. When Cas moves to rise, Sam comes into the devil's trap to kneel behind Dean, bring him to lean back against his chest and sit up that way. He's glad for it. He couldn't on his own. Not unless they strapped him up in a chair, and he doesn't wanna go out bound and collared.

Dean reaches back and over and pats the back of Sam's shoulder clumsily.

"Sammy," he starts, and Sam won't hear it.

"Save it," he says. "Forget it all. It'll all be different in a few minutes. We're gonna change everything, Dean. It'll be okay."

It all happens so fast. Cas is already in front of him with a knife. He slices his hand and it's dripping on the floor already. The words are coming _already_.

Sam has him propped up. Has a hand over the center of Dean's chest to keep him from slumping forward. And probably to help staunch the flow of blood if his body cracks back open. He can feel his breaths ratcheting up in speed against where Sam holds him up.

"Exorcizamus te," Cas kneels by Dean's side so he can angle his hand over his mouth, "omnis immundus spiritus, hanc animam redintegra-- _lustratus_ ," and if Cas says anything else, Dean can't hear it. There's a hand over his face, a wetness at his mouth, and the volcano's deafening silence rushing through his head like pyroclastic flow, like a landslide rolling over everything in sight and drowning it in death.

Ash cloud gray-out.

He doesn't know how long after, he's shaking-- no. Being shaken. By Sam. And he can see Cas saying something else but simply can't hear it. Not a word, not at all.

Until the sound comes back on, like turning on a car, like the stereo blurting in the middle of a commercial.

"-d put him down, I don't think he can--"

"Hold on-- Dean. Say something. Can you-- Is he bleeding anywhere?"

"Clean. All over. Check his arm?"

His arm hurts, so when Cas pulls it up to check he tries to curl his hand into a fist and pull away.

" _I know_ , I know, I have to check, Dean, please. It's- it looks fine..."

"The stitches are still holding. Dean. Dean, lookit me," Sam says, "you don't taste blood or anything, right?"

"I- actually just put a handful of blood in his mouth--" Cas says, confused.

"Fuck. Right. Sorry. Fuck," Sam rolls his eyes at himself.

"Circle," Dean manages to say.

"Circle?" Sam repeats.

"Yes," Cas says, seeing, at once, what it is Dean's saying. "Help him stand, Sam."

"I don't think he's--"

"He has to know if he can leave the devil's trap," Cas states plainly. He looks around, checking that the lines are all intact.

Sam breathes for a second. "Right. Yeah. 'Kay, c'mon, don't be a lazyass, Dean, here we go- _up_."

And they move so Dean's standing again, not the drunkard this time; he feels more like the liquid. Like you could slosh him around in a bottle.

And everything starts throbbing by a factor of five. And he's worn out like after a hunt. Like he could sleep for a month.

He swallows and he can taste the blood. If it's just Cas's, that's okay, but...

They as good as haul him out of the circle, only one of his feet really cooperating with the whole walking thing. And when he finally steps on tile that's not marked with paint, he smiles with a grin he knows is ugly and bloody and manic.

They get him over to a pew and try to keep him sitting up, but he pretty much slips to the side anyway. "Check the lines. Do it again," he manages to say.

"The lines are fine, we already checked, remember?" Cas says.

He does remember hitting the edge of it before, but being outside of it seems so unreal he wants to make sure.

Sam kicks his pillow out of the way so the whole circle is clear. "The lines are perfect," he confirms.

Cas is at his side again, his hand loosely bandaged. "We should get him upstairs before he passes ou-"


	3. 300

He's on a couch in front of a TV. It seems like he's there for a while. Something different is on every time he blinks so he must be doing all that sleeping he'd wanted to catch up on.

The first time he's awake long enough to follow a commercial break into an episode of _Mythbusters_ , he decides to stretch and move a little and his left hand curves out and smacks Cas in the side of the face.

He turns and looks up at Dean, slightly scandalized, like, _excuse you_.

"Oops," Dean croaks. "What are you down there for?" Cas is parked in front of the couch where Dean's been dumped and draped with a blanket.

It's more comfortable than the tile floor. He'll take it.

Cas puts the remote down and heaves himself up. "I'm watching you until Sam's back."

"Where'd he go?"

"To sleep. It's been a while."

Figures. "No sleep for you?"

"I already slept. Don't talk anymore, it sounds painful," he reaches down and palms the side of Dean's face. "I'll get you some water."

"Holy water," Dean starts to insist.

"I'll be right back," Cas nods, not blowing him off, but needing a minute.

He comes back with a fresh spring water, lid uncracked. Cas heads off his protests by telling him he has to drink some water and then he'll get Sam and _then_ they can do whatever tests he wants. So Cas helps him get to a sit and then watches him drink for a minute before he'll even head down the hall towards the bedrooms.

He's walking away and... Dean recognizes that shirt.

It's his shirt. One of his shirts, the good red one. Maybe a pair of his jeans, too.

Must be dire circumstances outside if nobody can get out to buy Cas some duds of his own.

He polishes off the bottle thinking Cas might be waiting for him to do so to bring Sam back. But it still takes a while.

Sam's a bright bastard. He comes back armed. Dean doesn't have to ask for anything.

Sam comes to sit on the low table in front of Dean. Dean scoots around to sit up a little more and toss the blanket away. Cas perches on the couch next to him, edge of his seat, watching intently.

Sam shakes the hair out of his face as he settles down and unloads himself of his various burdens. He sets a jug of holy water, rosary floating around inside, on the ground between his feet. He's got a bag of pretzels and a spray bottle, too, and finally, pulls a silver ceremonial knife from his back pocket.

The borax spray isn't necessary anymore. They haven't tested for Leviathan in a long time. But Sam knows his brother. Knows he'd want to be totally thorough.

Cas hands over a coffee mug and Sam pours a belt of holy water into it. Hands it over to Dean.

Dean sits up straight, breathes deep, and throws it back.

He's almost too freaked out to swallow, but forces himself to. And the water hits his belly like the rest of it had. No effect. Except to swim in a very empty stomach.

Sam breathes out a sigh of relief. He untapes the pretzel bag and hands Dean half a mini-pretzel, fat grains of salt all over it.

He crams it in his mouth and chews hastily.

"Slow down. We don't know the last time you ate a full meal," Sam starts to caution when Dean reaches for the bag to get more.

"I'm fucking starving. The last time I ate was never."

"No burning?" Cas interrupts.

"I'm fine," Dean confirms.

Cas's eyes slide closed and he drops his head almost as if in prayer.

Dean holds out his left hand for the spray of borax as he snags a second pretzel.

No reaction, as expected.

Then Sam makes a small cut on his arm with the knife.

And Dean gets to sit back in a daze as Sam accepts a clean bandage from Cas and wraps up his new wound.

Because it's bleeding. Not healing automatically. The blade stung as it dug into him. Didn't burn like he was a monster, but stung like he was a wounded human.

He has to know now. Has to see. "What about my chest. My arm," he starts asking.

"I checked those," Cas starts.

"And they're still healing," Sam confirms. "Just slower now. Don't unwrap 'em. I know you want to, but how about you trust me instead: they're fine." He reaches to jostle Dean's knee and Dean looks up from his bandaged arm to smile at Sam.

Sam's already smiling. He's fucking crying, too, but he's smiling. It's relief. Profound relief.

Demon no more.

He's not a demon. It's not in him. He's still wild to see his arm, inspect what's left of the Mark. Judge for himself whether or not it will be back. If they'll have to do this all over again.

But Sam's relief sweeps over him and he wants to be happy for a second. Just this one second.

"You sure you can handle food right now?" Sam asks, sniffing back his overflowing emotions before Dean can think to make him feel a fool for it.

"I'll take whatever you got," Dean confirms.

"Good. I'm gonna make you the greasiest fucking breakfast."

"Fuckin' A right you are," he grins. "Thanks, Sammy."

Sam stands and taps Cas on the arm. "Help him get to the kitchen?"

Cas looks up and he's smiling wild, too. He nods.

Sam smiles down at them both again, and leaves to dig up some food he would, traditionally, be opposed to.

Cas sits on the couch next to Dean for another long moment. His arm and hand are bandaged, still, from the ritual. Dean sways a little to knock into him. His shoulder hits Cas's and...

burns. Burns where he, to his knowledge, at least, had no wounds.

The way his face goes still immediately alarms Cas.

"Dean," he says, and raises his hand to put it directly _there_ and Dean hisses.

Cas's hand jolts back. "What's--?"

Dean pulls away from him to lift the sleeve of his t-shirt.

To reveal his left shoulder.

Where the raised, red mark of his resurrection from the pit sits once again. As clear as if it had been branded on him yesterday.

Cas's hand still hovers in the air between them, unsure of how to help Dean until what's revealed is--

He moves his hand forward, over the mark. The handprint. His own handprint, clearly, since it fits perfectly, even without his fingers touching down. Even with his hand hovering just above so it causes Dean no pain, it's obvious.

"Dean," he says, blank.

"Uhhh," Dean says.

Holy shit.

"Cas. Cas, help me get the bandage off."

Castiel complies immediately. He moves to Dean's right side on the couch and they both fumble at the fabric with skittish fingers, Cas trying not to hurt and Dean trying not to get tangled. Trying to spare the seconds more he'll live without knowing that the Mark of Cain is--

Gone.

Almost as if it had never been there. The flesh didn't magically heal 100%, but only one sweeping line and a mess of scabbed flesh is left to testify to the damage. And there's an ache, the ache that means it's still healing. But that's all. When it's all healed, he'll have only the ghost of the damage left in his skin. He'll know where it was from the practice, the _habit_ he used to have of running his fingers over the Mark of Cain.

But it will be hard for anyone else to really see.

"One mark for another?" Cas thinks aloud, clearly as awed at the look of it as Dean.

"I donno. I guess. I... think so. Yeah."

Cas's fingers dare to touch down where the Mark once stood livid on his skin. His fingers follow the veins down lightly. They're clear. Not jagged. Not molten-rock bright or tar black. He follows the veins down to Dean's open palm. Where his two fingers come to rest.

Dean closes his hand around them.

He looks to his shoulder and back to Cas.

"Hey. I guess that's twice, now?"  
That Cas has beat the hellfire back. Raised Dean from it.

They're huddled closer than Dean thought, sitting forward on the couch.

Cas doesn't accept the credit for this. He takes a breath and pushes the rest of his hand into Dean's, helps to draw him up and across the bunker, to the kitchen. Where they have something wonderful to show Sam.

The scabbed, empty arm. Not the shoulder.  
They don't discuss it, but neither of them mention the shoulder.  
A decision made with only a glance.

Regardless, Sam is fucking _thrilled_.

«»

Dean will see, later, when he's alone, getting ready to shower, that the lines of his tattoo are no longer marred. That the claw marks that had just barely emerged during the ritual are not there. And neither are his scars. Only the faint reminders of his injuries.

And Castiel's handprint.

«»

They keep a close eye on Dean's recovery, make him sleep on the couch in front of the TV for a couple more days until they're sure he can walk up all the stairs on his own and he's not gonna choke on salty food or anything.

Cas is still at his elbow when he's finally let loose, to go to his own room.

He's there to escort him if he needs help... but also, seemingly, to make an explanation.

"Uh. Cas?" he asks as they enter.

"I've been sleeping here. I hope you don't mind it," Cas says, like he just realized maybe he should be nervous about it. "I know it's. Well. _Your_ space. But. Um," he licks his lips, eyes darting around at the stuff he's left around. Weapons from his few months hunting with Sam. A new map is spread on the wall and Dean recognizes the red and black marks as places he'd worked for Crowley. Spots where demons had disappeared or their vessels been left to rot.

His tan coat hangs in the closet, along with his suit jacket and Dean's shirts and jackets.

Dean shrugs and walks, slow but steady, to the bedside table. He finds a new phone and cuts the package open, uncoils a cord and plugs it into the wall. He'll need a new one to get back to... whatever it is he's gonna be doing.

He pauses and turns. "I can pick another room if you want," he offers. He does like this room and that is his mattress moved back onto the bedframe and those are still his clothes and weapons and stuff. But it's nice that Cas has finally settled in, despite the circumstances. He could-

Cas crosses and crowds into his personal space. "I should be the one making that offer. But. I would prefer to stay. If. If that's something you'll allow." He looks down, so it's deliberate. Removes the phone from Dean's hand and sets it aside. Then watches his hand as he slides it onto Dean's hip and slightly back. He stares at where they're connected before raising his eyes to check Dean's.

"If it's something you think you might like," he amends.

Geeze. They are.  
Really close.

And Cas is touching him again.

He keeps doing that. Over-casual, unrestrained touches. The kind of ways that hands move across familiar bodies after years of practice. Cas has just decided to implement these touches in their everyday routines. He doesn't go possessive or cutesy. They're not caresses, but holds. Steadying grips and bracing hands. He has simply decided to stop letting the traditional boundaries of decorum set the borders between himself and Dean.

And here, in this intimate space and intimate air, in the bedroom he wants to share, he pushes his hand onto Dean's hip. Digs his thumb in small, firm sweeps and circles. Waiting.

He brings his other hand to Dean's shoulder, slides it to his neck.

Dean likes how this feels. He likes how unquestionable it is. How Cas has made the decision and stepped into this without waiting for Dean to make up his mind about it.

Dean doesn't like to get pushed around. But sometimes, he'll admit, he needs a shove.

Or a kick in the ass.

He's tired again. Only been up a few hours, but his body is still rebuilding, recovering, fixing the stupid shit he did and healing his hurts. He's tired again and too tired to try to think of reasons he can't have Cas here.

Cas can push him around for a while.

He stops straining his muscles and goes where Cas's hands seem to lead. Drops his head to lean against Cas's and feels the hand sweep from his hip, up his back, pulling him into Castiel's body.

Cas scrubs a hand through his hair and pulls away only to press in again, this time with his lips to Dean's temple. He presses a kiss there. "Tired again?" he asks against Dean's skin.

All Dean has to do is admit it. Nod.

Cas lets him go, turns to grab a pair of looser pants for Dean to sleep in. Presses them into his hands. Dean's still drinking water like a fish so he tells him he'll be back with another glass and disappears. When he comes back, all he has to do is press Dean down into the bed and toss the blanket over him.

Cas doesn't tuck him in or kiss him goodnight. Nothing flowery. "Sam won't want you to miss dinner, though, okay? Just a couple hours."

"Yeah. Sure."

"Okay. I love you. I'll be back."

"Yeah."

And the light snaps off. The door closes behind Cas.

So he's living with Cas now. Good thing the bed is wide.

Maybe Cas won't sleep with him?

He thinks for a minute.

He's not gonna make Cas sleep in another room.

Cas will sleep with him.  
Yes. Good thing the bed is wide.  
He nods off.

«»

He only thinks to be nervous after dinner. So he stays up late, keeps flipping to new shows, discussing them with Cas. They watch TV until he's blinking too long to see entire scenes. That's when Cas shakes him and turns off the television. Then he gets around to being nervous again.

"Come on," Cas says, leading down to the rooms. They pass the block of sound that is Sam snoring through his bedroom door.

And Dean kind of stays by the doorframe when they get there. Watches Cas move around, emptying his pockets and stripping off his shirt.

He turns. "Dean?"

He doesn't know what to say so he pulls the door closed behind himself and moves around Cas to change, too.

Dean can feel Cas watching him out of the corner of his eye. He strips and changes anyway. He's been sticking with his button-ups lately. And watching Cas walk around in his t-shirts.

Well. He kind of likes this arrangement.

He purposely takes longer, waits for Cas to settle in the bed first so he knows where he fits.

Taking cues in his own bedroom.

He rubs at the sore spot in his chest.

It's been a while since he felt truly nervous. Or cared about another person being in his space. Really, it's been a while since he's _wanted_ someone else in his space.

He likes Cas here. And he doesn't want to look for reasons to tell him to turn away, to run while he has a chance.

Dean wants it to be real, that idea of change, like Sam was saying. That things would change. That they wouldn't let him think the least of himself anymore. Wouldn't let him think he didn't have a place here.

As if to reinforce the message, Cas keeps to one side of the bed and leaves the far side empty.

Son of a bitch. Dean realizes that's _his side_ now.

He lays down for bed like he's testing the theory. Like he's trying to see if he really fits.

Of course he fits.

Cas is close at his shoulder and rolls to his side, pulling the covers up over them both. He tugs the sheets up and his hand falls to Dean's chest. "Is it hurting? You were rubbing at-"

"Not a lot. I just really _feel it_ sometimes. This deep hole. Kinda burns." He reaches up to hold Cas's hand down on him.

"It's not a hole," Cas insists. It's a small wound. Like the stab that killed him never happened. They've been through this: it only opened up a bit during the ritual, then it started healing half-way through, soon after it opened. "And nothing in you burns."

Dean doesn't refute this.

"I've seen inside demons before, Dean. You're human, there's nothing in you that burns. It's true that I can't see now. But. I _know_ ," he insists.

"I meant like heartburn, Cas," he tries to pass it off.

"I'm watching you and I'll know if things start going back to how they were," comfort and warning. Cas wants change like Sam has wanted change for a while now. He wants them to change together. To grow.

And if Dean starts slipping back-  
He won't let Dean slip back.

Dean takes the initiative this time, just to shut him up. He tugs Cas's hand over his side and rolls in to face him.

Cas grips him, pulls him tight, and doesn't hesitate before pushing in to kiss him on the mouth.

It's been a no-excitement zone in the bunker since the end of the ritual. He's been resting for days, they've been letting him heal. Nothing too strenuous or sudden.

So the feeling of his heartbeat ratcheting up is startling. He hasn't heard it in a long time. It thuds in his ears over the close sound of Cas breathing against him. After only a short kiss, he pulls back, panting.

Cas frowns. Pulls away and turns to click the lamp off. "You should sleep."

Nah.

When it's dark, and Cas settles next to him again, Dean just presses in and finds his lips a second time. And kisses him right. Deep. Turning it wet and audible real fast. He flushes. Feels heated.

Holy shit, he wants to make out. He wants to kiss for a thousand minutes. He puts his hands on Cas's head to direct him, turn it from kissing into passion or whatever will induce Cas to maybe put a hand down his pants.

He wants sex. He hasn't had sex in a while. Sex is fucking great. Kissing is great. Feeling things is great. God, he's missed this.

He hooks their ankles to tangle them and, surprisingly, Cas seems to have gotten there a while ago: he's rock hard in his pajama pants, and likes the friction. But he pulls back, anyway. And pushes up to lean over Dean so he can extricate himself in steps.

Dean keeps coming for him, surging up at him, but he presses him back down and finally stops to breathe, mouth resting on Dean's temple, trying to calm down.

He's not sure what he did wrong. Or why they're stopping. Other than maybe the chest wound he's still rocking and the tremoring right arm.

If they're stopping because Cas doesn't want to hurt him.

Well.  
Responsibility sucks.

"How come you're not gonna?" he asks anyway, petulant.

"No condoms," Cas says. "I, um. Had a talk with Sam."

" _Please_ tell me you didn't tell my brother you were going to-"

"He explained what 'protection' meant and called me a sixth grader. I didn't tell him that I specifically intended to have sex with you." Dean can see him waver in the dim light of the clock radio. "It... might have been assumed, I admit."

Dean huffs a sigh.

Okay. Well. Guess he has to calm down.

"But I noticed you have. Lubricant. In the. Drawer." Cas says, kind of uncertain.

"Okay," Dean says.

And in the dark he can't watch Cas straddle him but he can feel the solid muscles of his legs as he goes from simply leaning over him to _being_ over him. He reaches for the far drawer, on Dean's side, and pulls it open to rummage around in it.

Dean stretches out to the opposite side and, it's his weak arm, so he fumbles it at first, but eventually clicks the lamp on again.

He pushes the sheet down and

Cas is still hard, right there on top of him. And holy fuck. That gets his blood flowing south, too.

He digs a grip into each of Cas's thighs and can't help but roll his hips under him once, pressing his own erection into Cas's ass.

Cas huffs and slams the drawer back closed again so hard it rebounds back a little. He's back with the lube.

He drops it beside Dean and whips off his shirt and is pulling the waistband of his pants down over his dick before Dean can even stop to appreciate this in small tastes and teases. He digs his fingers into Cas's thighs again and rides up.

"Nnh," Cas swallows and grabs for the lube, avoids Dean's eyes-- he's avoiding Dean. So Dean stares intently. Rides up again.

Cas doesn't let it shake his focus. He gets his fingers good and wet then immediately starts touching himself. Rolling and riding into his hand and Dean watches, even before Cas's other hand creeps up, digs into his hair and holds him where he can see. See Cas jerking himself off over him. Fuck yes.

He presses himself against Cas's ass, gonna make a mess of his boxers if he doesn't calm down, but he's not being cautioned against anything. No part of his healing body is stinging or protesting enough for him to stop. Cas is stroking his own cock pushing the full red head through the circle of his fist in varying rhythms. And he does it for a while before opening his eyes back up and locking them on Dean's.

When their eyes meet, he runs out of control.

He moans some, rides his ass back on Dean's lap just a few times before he has to fall forward and kiss again. Dean takes the kisses, greedy, Cas's hand still at the back of his head, directing. He pulls away only to shuffle higher and tug at Dean's shirt, shoving it up to reveal the expanse of his torso. When he leans down again, it's to push his cock between Dean's lower belly and his hand, fucking against it. And he moans into Dean's mouth, kissing again, everything slick pretty much everywhere.

He was building it pretty good for a while. Dean really wanted to watch him, watch what he did to make himself hot, watch how simply being on top of Dean was enough to get him off, but he comes against Dean's stomach as they're kissing and Dean's grinding up into nothing.

His arm shakes and he lets it drop from its death-grip on Cas's thigh.

Cas was admirably non-verbal, almost quiet. But Dean isn't gonna be. Cas falls to the side and shoves his clean hand into Dean's sleep pants. He yanks it away again to fumble with the lube and Dean helps because it feels fucking _really nice, yeah_ , and in no time, Cas's hand is back down there, stroking him before he can even pull his pants and shorts out of the way to see. He's got to _see_.

"Cas, dammnit, Cas," his voice is already a little desperate, a little high. Cas doesn't settle on one grip. He seems to vary it, looking for the right combo of stroke and squeeze. He's turned away, not close enough to kiss. So Dean babbles when it's good and goes _silent_ when it's best, a complete loss of oxygen cutting the noise off. Cas watches his cock, surveying. At one point dips down to kiss Dean's belly, by the mess there from his own release. Hooks his leg over Dean's at another point. Intent, all the while. Watching Dean's cock and perfecting the pitch of Dean's silence above him.

He's watching, still, when he says, "I can't wait to be inside you. Watching this while I'm inside you." His voice sounds like awe and relief. Because he's close to the day he can have that. There's gotta be a couple loose condoms in a packet somewhere in this fucking bunker. In some bag in the closet or the trunk maybe. Somewhere. And, when they get there-

"Fuck," Dean gasps, can't hold out. He can't do it with Cas turned away, either. Needs him up here. Those steady eyes that anchor him to the truth when he's too wrapped up in himself or spouting off at the mouth or making dumb jokes when he ought to be _working_ with Cas. Not around or above him or acting like they've got separate lives and separate goals.

Sharing a bed and all else. Cas is human. He gets to keep this, now. "Cas," he doesn't have to plead, it's plain in his voice. Cas stops varying for height of effect and the change in grip means business. He turns away from it to push up and kiss Dean again, which is all he wanted. Dean rides up one final time with Cas biting at his lips gently. Comes and collapses back, eyes rolling up a little, riding out the high waves of orgasm.

Cas uses the discarded shirt to wipe off his hands and then move back up, straddling Dean again, crawling above him. He kisses up his neck and into his mouth. "I'll be inside you next time, Dean," he breathes, "I promise." A kiss. "I love you."

"You better," Dean pulls him down. As is their custom; him _always_ pulling Cas _down_.

Cas rolls to his side and holds Dean _beside_ him.  
As will be their **_future_**.

«»

Two somewhat-stable days later and Dean is forcefully reminded that there's a world outside of the bunker.

He wakes up late in the morning to an empty bed. Cas would have let him sleep, of course, but his raised voice echoing from above stirs the hunter's crisis response that gets him out of bed. Gets a gun in his hand. Gets him sliding down the hall, tight to the wall, listening intently for the other half of his senses; waiting for input from Sam.

But Sam doesn't slink out of his room. Or from further down the hall.

Dean pauses and listens. The low rumble of two voices. Not just Cas, but Sam above as well.

Dean pauses and flexes his right arm and hand. Regrips his gun.

Upstairs, there's no evidence that someone's there to harm them. Except Sam slung in a chair bloody, curled over himself in pain and looking like he's holding his guts in with his own hands.

Cas is crouched over him and his hands are bloody, too, holding booze and bandages, doing what he can under Sam's grunted instruction.

Dean still has his gun aimed low, eyes wide. "Guys?" he says, quick, in that _gimme a fuckin' status report_ voice.

"It's fine," Sam says, "it's outside. The wards are down but the lines are solid."

The tension falls out of Dean's shoulders and he puts his gun in his waistband before rushing over to pull Sam's shirt away from the damage and do what he can to help Cas patch him up.

There are rips, parallel gouges. Animal claws. Most likely culprit right now is

"Hellhounds," he curses and tears at the medical tape with his teeth, handing Cas pieces as he needs them.

"Yeah. Didn't see anything," Sam hisses through a rueful laugh, "but I'm pretty sure that's what happened. They went digging."

"Digging?" Dean asks with an eyebrow raised and turning to grab the water bottle he'd left on the far end of the table yesterday. He wets a rag and starts wiping some of the blood away so they can see better. It's mostly Sam's shoulder. Jagged swipes down from his shoulder to his side. Like the beast dug its claws in and was dragged away with the momentum of a shotgun blast to the face, making a sharp 80-degree angle as they pulled away and out of Sam's flesh.

"Yeah, we had the goofer and salt lines buried and they. They were just digging at them, trying to crumble them out and break the line. There was just one hole but they got in. I dumped enough dust on the stairs coming down that I don't think they'll get that close." Sam winces and breathes through his teeth again as Cas concludes with his side and pries Sam's hand away from his stomach. There sit the perfectly diamond-shaped puncture marks of claws that went in and were simply retracted. They must have come from the paw that held Sam down for the chewing he was about to receive.

But they obviously went deeper as they seem like the more painful of the wounds. They're also bleeding pretty good.

Dean hisses in sympathy and starts murmuring, "Hey, it's okay, Sammy"s and helps to pass alcohol and things to Cas.

They tend to one last swipe at Sam's ankle. Comparatively minor, considering.

"Anyone else out there?" Cas asks as they clean up.

"No one that I could see. Which means there's gotta be a small army hanging out at the bottom of the hill, out of sight or something, right?"

"We won't know until we look," Dean says, passing painkillers to Sam and recapping the bottle.

Sam directs a glare up at him. "We just got you vertical. You're not going out there."

"Not alone, I'm not. I'm backing up Cas."

"Cas," Sam looks to him for support, but Cas ignores them, isn't fielding that argument right now. Instead he motions to Dean to help him haul Sam up.

"I've got it, I'm okay," Sam waves them off and stands on his own. Whether he can make it someplace else is in question. He tries his feet, one at a time. The left wobbles a bit from the ankle hit, but he limps along on it well enough.

Cas looks at Dean behind Sam's back. A steady look, like they've got something to discuss.

Dean gets Sam a fresh drink to wash the pills down with, while Cas gets him downstairs and into his room. They make sure he takes the pills and Cas ignores his protests about Dean going outside until he's just on the point of exiting.

He takes the glass from Sam and sets it down on his dresser. 

"We won't make any rash decisions, but we can't stay trapped in here, Sam," Cas reasons.

Dean tosses Sam a new shirt from his closet. It hits his arm and falls to the bed where he carefully retrieves it and grimaces while attempting to pull it on over his head. Cas steps back over to help with this, too.

"Dean shouldn't go out there," Sam repeats.

"I'm not exactly up on this whole situation, guys. I didn't think it was this bad. Crowley knows we had that trick up our sleeves. He should know by now that I'm either cured or dead."

"He might assume that, but he can't confirm it," Cas corrects. "And there's more than one thing in here he wants."

"He wants us all dead, for one," Sam notes.

"Yes," Cas agrees. "There's also that."

"Fine, so he still wants in," guessing Crowley's full motives is so beyond them right now. That twisted fuck will do *whatever.* "We don't need to know _why_ , we need a plan to stop him."

Cas sighs. "There have been patrols. Seemingly random. What appears to be some skittish minor demons and some others, seasoned and higher ranked. There are some that flee when we open the front door and others that don't. Bolder ones. And the dogs."

"What about the downstairs entrance." Damn, he hasn't thought of his baby in so long. "The garage. They can't get in, can they?"

Sam is quick to reassure him. "We got the outside of the garage lined and warded, too. We should have put down a salt line and paved a driveway," he points out to Dean. "You were right about that. That was a good idea," he sighs at the wasted potential now that they've been caught out.

"They do circle the whole area," Cas goes on. "Crowley hasn't shown his face yet, but a few of the demons have demanded that we release you back to him."

It would be easiest to silence Sam's protests by dropping another painkiller into his glass and dosing him until he falls asleep, then sneaking out with Cas to nail down as many of the bastards as they can.

Dean takes a deep breath.

They don't do that anymore. He doesn't wanna hide shit anymore.

"We have any holy oil lying around?"

Sam thinks. "Um. In the trunk, maybe?"

"Alright. We lift the door a little while we're down there."

"Check the integrity of the lines," Cas guesses.

"Yeah. And make ourselves some hell-o-vision."

Sam snaps his fingers, getting it now. "There's uhh--" he thinks. "Shit. There's some safety glasses in a workbench down there."

"Perfect," Dean pushes away from where he was leaning on the doorframe. "C'mon Cas."

He explains on their way, twisting through the various levels of the batcave. Cas isn't an angel anymore. Dean's not a demon anymore. Neither of them can see hellhounds to even get a shot at them.

This will fix that. Once in the garage, he slides his hand across the Impala's solid frame, adoring.

Oh, _sweetheart_.

The first thing he's gonna do after they slice up these stragglers is blaze her into town and get a goddamn greasy burger. Extra onions.

The safety glasses stored with their tools are newer and thus, unfortunately, plastic.

It won't do. They have to be glass. So Dean searches the car for any extra shades they might have picked up at a gas station or something and Cas picks through some of the old automotive gear in the storage cabinets. That's where he finds what look like some antique motorcycle goggles.

"Oooh yeah. Cas. You're gonna look so steampunk in these," Dean grins.

He judges the work sink too flimsy to withstand flames, so he lights a puddle of holy oil right on the garage floor and waves the glass goggles over them.

"Here ya go. They look, I donno. Pretty trippy through these. But you'll be able to gauge the size and shape of them at least."

Cas straps his on right away and crouches low to the ground while Dean hauls the rolling door up just a smidge. Cas does a visual sweep and then quickly motions for Dean to drop the door back down. There's a sudden racket on the other side. A vicious snarling and barking.

He can tell that Cas is thinking what he is. That this entrance is too wide to fight from. They'll have to start back from the front door.

"Four that I could count. You've still got your gun," Cas confirms, as if there were a doubt Dean would come down here armed.

He pulls it out and presents it. Cas pushes the goggles up his head, the band crumpling his hair into a jutting disarray. He then leads Dean up to the firing range.

"Show me how your arm is holding up," he demands.

Dean knows this is a test to see if he's ready to fight. He is. His arm is still recovering, his body now healing at a human pace, but with the battle adrenaline coursing, he'll be able to hold steady. The tremors are lessening. The muscle still aches, deep, but he keeps the bandage on it and that additional pressure feels good to him.

If they had a dummy down here he could slice into, that would be a more accurate measure for how he'd handle the hellhounds. But what they've got is this. And Cas will trust him if he both _says_ and _shows_ that he can do _this_.

Dean slides and checks the clip. Taps and clacks it home. Raises and steadies his gun.

«»

He insists on checking Dean's arm and rebandaging it. Dean makes sure he wraps it tight enough so that he feels like he's got an extra layer of skin holding it all together. It still looks a little red and tender. He should probably let it breathe and keep it unbound. But he needs to feel like his surface is unmarred and clean; an even texture. He'll be facing hounds and possibly demons for the first time since he left their ranks. He wants his human skin to hold tight. To not slip from his surface to reveal some jagged black lava field. To not reveal the parts of him that still believe he belongs with them. Still damned.

He thought he'd keep touching his arm, like he used to worry over the surface of the Mark, but really he tries not to disturb it so much. More often, he'll find that he's leaning over a table with that arm crossed over his chest, hand running over the still slightly-raised outline of Castiel's handprint on his other shoulder. Wondering at it. Remembering how it was placed the first time and knowing that it isn't out of alignment one fraction of an inch. It's exactly as it was.

Cas has been cautious about not touching him there. But after he makes sure the rest of Dean's body is prepared for a fight, he pops the first few buttons of Dean's shirt and pushes it over Dean's shoulder gently.

"Does it still sting?" he asks, kinda distractingly close.

"Nah."

Cas's jaw flexes. Sam still had several very valid doubts. He knows Cas is torn between siding with him and being free. He wants to be able to come and go, _from their home_ , and for them to be safe and at peace.

But he isn't sure about taking Dean out there so soon.

"In." Dean pauses breathes. "Around Crowley's offices. And in Hell. Wherever we were. They had hellhounds. Lots of 'em. They were training more. I guess it didn't go real fast, but I saw a few. I think Crowley liked to parade us down the hall past them just to watch me jump," he grins and rolls his eyes at himself. "Because I was some bigshot and up-and-coming knight and I still fucking _jumped_ every time I saw the damn things. I _hate_ hellhounds," he adds, almost involuntary.

"I know," Cas says, fingers still soothing and light on his shoulder. Running over his own fingerprints.

"Point is," Dean shrugs a little, "I've been around them a little more, lately. And. I think I know how they move. I think I can predict a little better how fast they are and what shape their bodies go when they attack or get defensive. I know my enemy right now. And we've got the goggles. So I can see 'em. Cas, I don't think I've ever been more prepared to take on hellhounds. So if Sam said he didn't see any actual demons? Then we need to get out there, _now_ , and slice up the dogs while we've got a chance. While they've got no one there to defend them or call them in."

Cas locks eyes with him and does that thing where he seeks the truth of Dean's words in his eyes. His nod is not an _I'm humoring your bullshit_ nod, it's an _I trust what you're saying_ nod.

"Sam will want to come out with us."

"Sam's chewed up enough for one day. I'm fit, Cas. I'm ready. I've gone out hunting in worse condition. You guys've been babying me too much."

Cas double-blinks trying to connect a turn of phrase and then nods quickly when he gets it. "I didn't mean to make you feel like a child-"

"S'okay," Dean shrugs his shirt back up and buttons it. "You care," it comes out of Dean with wide eyes, like he still can't believe it when he says it, but it's wild and good and true. "And you kept me safe and I'm all healed up now and I'm gonna be a man and get back to cleaning up my lawn. So, whaddaya say you go tell Sam what's up. Tell him to stay put. And let's get to mowing."

"What if he-"

"We're not gonna strap him down or anything. Tell him that if he gets up and tries to come save the day, he'll only be distracting us. We don't have a third pair of goggles and you and I have _got this_. He's smart and going out there unprepared would be stupid. Tell him he's stupid."

"I'm not telling Sam he's stupid. He's very intelligent."

"That's why he's gonna let us go on this run. We got this," Dean repeats. "I'll change into some jeans. You got an angel blade?"

"In my coat pocket, in our room."

"I'll grab it. Get the demon-killing knife. Meet you upstairs."

«»

It goes like this:

"Three," says Dean, pulling his motorcycle goggles down over his eyes.  
"Two," says Cas, doing the same.  
"One," says Dean,  
and Cas slams shoulder-first through the front door and out into the sunshine.

Dean rounds out and right to Cas's back. Their boots skid a little in the grains of goofer dust that lay in thick dunes under their feet. Every step up to ground level is zig-zagged with gray lines of it. Dots of Sam's blood have settled black in some places.

They strapped their shotguns opposite ways across their backs so they slot together, clattering as they turn, back-to-back.

Dean's got the demon blade, Cas the angel sword. They stop shuffling so the dust under their feet is silent. And they listen.

No birds nearby, but there hardly ever are. Something about the wards that resonate out of the bunker. Strangers find they have other directions to drive in, stray cats sometimes hiss and run down the hill, into the farmland.

None of that now. No movement. No sound.

Until a spittle-thick rolling belly growl starts and immediately hushes above them.

Dean can hear it stop itself and sniff the air. He turns his head. The almost 3D, wonky, ghostly image of the hellhound above slinks into view beyond the cement arms of the bunker's entryway.

Cas starts side-stepping up.  
Dean's feet follow.

The solid clack- _clack_ of pumping a shotgun would be a good balm to the nervous energy, and send an audible threat to the dog. Basically, it would make Dean feel better.

Instead he relax-flexes-relax-flexes his arm and the hand holding the blade. And his other hand taps Cas's hip so they both stop at the top, before they can cross the raised-dirt lines.

There are two. The dust line and the salt line. And there's the visual evidence that they've been fucked with. One jagged curve of goofer dust up the stairs and to the wall and one buried salt line are all that's between them and the forces keeping them cornered in the bunker. The outer goofer line was caved in by a dog's digging.

A sudden, brazen howl from the dog staring them down.

Nearby comes the rush of paw beats against the ground and three hounds emerge from the nearby trees. That's four. Far off, a return howl. More around the other side of the bunker, down where the garage door is. Were they split even, four and four? He thinks he can distinguish at least two different howls in return. Maybe their numbers shift between the doors.

But six, at least, he thinks.

They don't face the dogs. They watch in their periphery and shoot quick glances. They're hoping the dogs are dumb enough to think they've still got invisibility on their side.

"I see four."

"Same," Dean confirms.

"Go for the throat so they can't howl for the others again."

"Might already be on their way," Dean thinks aloud.

"Then let's begin." Cas's dead-set voice. Calm. Absolute.

When he bolts over the line Dean turns to run backwards, keeps their backs protected. He runs up against Cas and jolts to a holt as Cas slams his blade into the brains of the closest one. Vicious snarls rip into the air and two come from Dean's left, one from the right.

Cas slides right, covering Dean's hurt side as he predicted he would, slamming and twisting over the lone hound while Dean gets slammed into at the left. He goes limp for the hit and, surprise, hurls all his weight behind turning over and slamming the dog to the ground, getting in a couple belly stabs that have it whimpering, before it snaps at his ear, too close, and Dean rolls away to protect his neck.

The other is at his feet, now, he kicks to keep it from getting a grip with its teeth and manages a couple snout shots with his boots. The other surges at his neck again and he rolls away, falling into Sam's dust line and over it. It's still solid enough the dogs can't cross. He looks to check to the side to see that Cas is still fighting with the second dog and then darts out of the protected zone again, faking like he's gonna come up and slice right, until he brings the blade up from the left and under the neck of one of the dogs. Its companion snaps at his shoulder but too late. Up-and-out thrust, cutting every vital cord in the dog's throat, spewing black blood and leaving it flailing to the side.

Not much of an option at this angle except to body slam the fourth dog and stab into its hindquarters as quick and often as he can while they pit their strength against one another.

It howls in pain. Howls too fucking loud. Shit.

A shotgun blast at the beast's head. Almost too close to Dean's face, and it whimpers, sound cutting off. Cas stalks up, pumping and aiming again, second blast that mostly misses its neck. Dean's gotten on top of it by now, knees into its heaving, wriggling mass, and he's got the belly totally exposed. Aims for the heart and stabs _down_. Wind knocks a last whimper out of the dog and it turns to dead weight under him. He twists the blade, pulls it down, opens it from chest to belly to make sure it stays dead.

Black, gooey blood pours everywhere and the howling and stamping starts again. Dean only has a second to breathe and haul himself up. Cas gets his elbow and helps, then yanks him back over the line. He kicks the dust back into array so they've still got a defined barrier behind which they can catch their breath.

Dean shakes hellhound blood off his hands and covers his thumb with his shirtsleeve to clear the mucked-up left eye of his goggles.

Cas reloads his shotgun with more salt rounds and just finishes as three more sets of paws come trotting up, growling tamped down. They're trained to use their invisibility and these ones drop into stealth mode.

But Dean and Cas can see those red eyes assessing them. Can see them slinking to left, right, and center to corner them. One decides to charge too early and hits the invisible wall of the goofer dust line. It growls wild and impatient and angry. The third, the biggest by far, at center, snaps like it wants fucking silence, like _get in formation, dipshit_.

The first is playing a real amateur game pacing that close to the line and Dean and Cas look at nothing but each other. Cas pumps the gun again and when Dean cocks his head to the side, _right or left?_ Cas chooses left. He walks to the leftmost limit of the dog's pacing and stands at the line. Lures it like he's about to step over and into its waiting jaws. Dean comes to the right and when the shotgun blast blows it sideways, staggering, Dean's waiting on its other side to run his blade right into its brains.

The other two just growl. The biggest wisely backs off a little.

Now the fight is even. But the second one isn't getting lured any closer.

"Maybe we shoulda brought bait. Some kibble."

"We're the 'kibble' they want," Cas says. "You take one, I'll take the other."

"I'm gettin' kinda worried that the big one is gonna turn tail and bolt. He looks too smart. Might bring back some friends."

"It's on order to patrol here. It will die following orders."

"Okay, probably. So what if we ignore the smaller guy, both come at the big guy? That outta surprise him."

"I'll go right," Cas says, and, no. The other dog is on the right. He's not exposing himself to protect Dean's right side.

"No. We run up back-to-back again. Little guy will follow. I'll protect your back while you jump on the big one, just like the first time we stepped over the line."

Cas stops and cocks his head, thinking.

"No," he eventually says.  
"No?" Dean repeats.

"Let's let him in. The smaller one will fall for it."

"Cas, I don't wanna give the other one time to bolt-"

"The longer we talk about this, the more of a chance that might happen. Step back to the wall."

Fine. He does. He pulls his shotgun over his front and readies it.

Cas walks up to the line, standing opposite the smaller dog. He looks between the dog and Dean.

Dean nods.

Cas drags a foot through the dust line.

Just like he thought, the dog charges, springs across the broken line and is ready to jump at him but Dean blasts him with a salt round so it gets angry at him, instead, comes barreling towards him where he stands at the wall, frothing, barking, snapping.

Cas kicks the dust back in line and whirls flipping his bladepoint into his hand and shucking it at the dog's back as it charges Dean. Another shotgun blast from him and the blade is suddenly buried between the dog's shoulders and it cries out, wounded from front and back, running steps faltering, giving Dean time to fire another round in its face. Cas just marches up behind it, reaches over, yanks the blade, and sinks it again, this time into the back of the dog's neck before it can turn, killing it. The force of the stab is so hard it almost stakes the hound to the ground.

The last, the biggun, is back there letting out those nightmare barks and constant growls, now, fully aware it can be seen. Knowing it's the last beast standing. Its only hope is to draw them out and attack with crushing force, teeth exposed, back up, attempting to look as man-eating as it can.

Dean reloads his gun. They're gonna have to separate and step over the line themselves to handle this.

Cas stays to the far right and Dean the far left. They exit from opposite corners of their small sanctuary. The hellhound is barking so hard it's basically screaming, trembling in place, whipping its head between the two of them. They step over the corpses of the other dogs to come around and it's about to make its decision. Which of them looks scrawnier? Which looks more wounded? Slower? The dog must decide which of the humans it can tear into before the other attacks him from the side.

Cas has his coat on and it billows out, making him look like a big creature. Dean's a little taller, just two layers on these days instead of the three he used to wear. But still, he's got those big shitkicker boots and his jacket to fill out his lines.

They're both covered in more hound blood than blood of their own. They're both stalking at him with knives. He's just watched them both snuff his pack brothers.

But Dean's approaching from the bunker side, Cas from the road side. Either it sees some minor weakness in Cas or it wants the chance to bolt for the wide-open space of the driveway and woods if he should be wounded. No matter the reason, it decides to round on Cas and comes straight at him.

Dean is hot on its tail as Cas spins out of the way of the direct attack and swipes a cut long across the hound's side, slicing into his back real nice.

Yelp, half-howl, and more ferocious growling as it angles for another charge, jaws wide open and looking to rip Cas's arm off below the elbow. But it doesn't have time to dodge Dean, who's leaping at its hind and barrels into him, blade-first. Dean doesn't have a good enough grip so it yowls and struggles out from under him, directly into Cas's arms and he bowls it over, brings his blade under its neck and opens it up before Dean can aim another blow with his own knife.

They both let go and shuffle back. Dean with his ass in the dirt, skidding backwards until he can get his feet under him and trip back over the line.

They both hit the ground again and breathe heavy.

Dean listens over their panting and hears nothing. No other dogs. The last one was loud enough that it should have brought any of its buddies over. And nothing. So just seven. Seven dead hellhounds. He lifts his goggles and pulls up his collar to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Cas doesn't. He inspects the bodies of the dogs curiously.

"Okay," Dean says, at a loss for anything else.

"Yes," Cas agrees. "Any major injuries?"

Dean fell on his elbow hard, but at least it wasn't the bad arm. A couple slices from claws, but nothing major. He shakes his head. "You alright?"

"Yes. I have an idea."

"Oh, good, great, wonderful." He's not ready for more ideas. He's ready for, maybe, a shower, and another fucking nap.

"Go rest for a minute," Cas turns to him. "And tell Sam we're alright. I need posts and nails. Um. A shovel, maybe."

"Okaaaay," Dean's curious but... Sam. Sam will come out here if he doesn't hear from them soon.

Eventually he feels he can get his feet under himself and stay upright.

"And another bag of salt would be wise, I think."

"Alright." He watches Cas cross the line to pull at something invisible. Black blood oozes to the ground when he does, so Dean assumes he's inspecting the guts of one of the dog bodies. "Don't you wanna," he grimaces, "wash your hands?" he looks down at his own, now with unshakable thoughts of the gross hell-doggy gore all over him. He spits to the side like he can taste it.

"I'll wait here," Cas says.

Ugh. Gross. Okay.

«»

Dean takes a little time out until Sam's curiosity can't be contained and he has to go up and see.

By the time they're topside again, Cas has gathered a few solid-looking branches and is crouching over a hellhound corpse with the blade in his hand. Dean took his goggles off since they were pretty tight on his head. "What the hell are you doing?" he calls out as they walk up.

Sam and Dean avoid the obvious puddles of blood, but Sam trips over an invisible body, anyway.

"I think we skin them, and hang the hides outside our doors."

"Wow," Sam's taken aback. "That's pretty barbaric, Cas."

"It's invisible to any passerby, but it's a promise to the other demons of what will happen to them should they attempt to cross the lines. And with this many of their brothers dead, I don't think other hellhounds will dare to come close."

Dean is still looking at the black muck of the very visible guts Cas pulled out and muttering, "yuck."

"I don't know if we have to go that far. Did you guys see any other demons out here?" Sam asks.

"No. That's pretty suspicious to me."

"Have you checked the garage entrance?"

"Not in an hour. I'm pretty sure the other three dogs came from back there."

"Still, we oughtta check," Sam says.

"I'll do it," Cas offers. "I'll need nails and things from down there, anyway."

"Guess I'll find a bucket for all this... ech," Dean says, grossed out. He's gonna grab a shovel to do it with. No way he's going elbow-deep in this gore like Cas.

"I'll spread out a new line and clean these ones up, then I'll go look for more goofer dust. I think we're out, but I might have the dregs of a bag somewhere," Sam says.

They go back inside to get to these tasks. Dean insists Cas wash up at least _some_ before he trails it through the house.

They work until dinner. In Sam's case he has to tap out and get to bed. The blood loss and the ache wore on him. He wants to stay up and help, but Castiel insists they'll be fine alone.

Dean and Cas head to the surface again, grabbing their jackets with their goggles and blades in the pockets to continue skinning.

And at the surface.  
Are welcomed by Crowley.

His personal guard stand at his back, a big group of demons. And he's crouched low, seemingly inspecting the pile of hellhound corpses they haven't dug into yet.

He rises and looks up from there to the one corpse that's been posted so far. His distaste for it is plain.

"Animal cruelty. You truly are savages," Crowley sneers.

Dean directs a brief, tiny headshake at Cas when his hands go to his pockets for the glasses and his sword.

Dean doesn't want Crowley to know they have the goggles. And he doesn't want Cas leaping over the line to slay him and getting himself attacked by the guard.

He remembers these guys. They're some of the least dumb demons he knows. They could get to Cas quick.

He stands close, instead, so their arms are pressed together. And so that, when he starts ascending the stairs, Cas is right next to him, step for step.

As they get to ground level, they can see, by the light of the setting sun, that the lines are still undisturbed.

Crowley hasn't pulled out any of his tricks yet. So this may not be a slaughter.  
It could, possibly, turn into a negotiation.

When he finally sets eyes on Dean, he looks into him deep.

"That's a shame, angel. You took my shiniest sword and hollowed him out again. Settling back into the puppet theatre, are we, Dean?"

"We got nothing you want here unless what you want is to be chopped and flayed like your fucking dogs," Dean replies.

Crowley looks fully fed-up with him when he shakes his head. "You've lived a long, tragic life trying to hone yourself into the perfect weapon, Dean. I shove you in the fire to temper you and what do I get for it? A whole kennel's worth of hounds, gutted. Dumped and displayed like a single of them isn't worth _ten_ of your useless, pathetic walking corpse."

Cas tenses entirely too tight at his side.

"Donno about that," Dean aims for nonchalant. "Cas can't see 'em anymore, either and we still fucked every one of 'em up. Seven or seventy, I really don't care. What part of 'Winchester' still escapes your goddamn understanding, you ignorant son of a bitch?" Dean smiles, mocking.

Crowley's eyes tighten and he buries his hands in his pockets, walking up to the very edge of the line.

"I don't see the prettier brother anywhere," Crowley notes. "Did he abandon you?"

Cas betrays a nervous glance over his shoulder.

"Aah," Crowley catches on. "Did the doggies make him a foot shorter? Is he too busy bleeding out?"

Dean and Cas say nothing. Dean purposely lets it look like his bravado is slipping.

"Mm," Crowley nods, his suspicions confirmed. "Tell you what. I've still got a soft-spot for the brute." He rolls his eyes heavenward, "It's a burden, but he and I?" He looks back down to smile. "We had an understanding for a while. I think he very nearly came around to liking _me_ , for _me_ ," he flutters. "Let me have a look at the damage and... maybe we work out a deal."

"A _deal?_ With _you?_ " Cas growls.

"That's what I said. And I hold to my deals. Everyone here knows that. Unlike you, Castiel, _you_ when you're no more than a dog on a leash, yourself," he indicates them both meaningfully.

Dean has to stop Cas from jumping down his throat by asking, "A deal for what?"

"Well. Seeing as I did all the legwork finding the First Blade, I'd say it best belongs back in my hands."

Dean doesn't remind him that it's useless without the Mark of Cain attached to the one who wields it, but can't help that his face betrays his doubt just a little.

Crowley shrugs. "If I find Cain again, then I've got someone who already trumps your weak attempt at knighthood. Or I find out who you hoisted the Mark off on, I've got myself a ready warrior," he raises his eyebrow questioning.

Dean twitches a little. Like there's something he's hiding.

Crowley reads it on him like a book.

"So what say you allow me into the ole fortress and we have ourselves a civil little negotiation?" he proposes. "Show me you've still got the First Blade and then show me to Sam."

Here, Dean takes the time to turn his head to Cas. They can't afford a full conversation and, even though Sam is supposedly asleep, he's got a hunter's danger radar. He could appear at any moment. There's no time to waste on this.

Dean dips his eyes down. He's always exchanging full convos with Cas. They've always had this little intensity. It would make him squirm sometimes and, others, it would make for a seriously on-point fight. The two of them punching and slaying together as if their moves were choreographed.

He's counting on Cas reading it in his eyes.

He thinks Cas gets it because his shoulders go a little looser, his right arm tucks into his side a little, his hand inching closer to his pocket, where his sword sits. He slips the mask off for one second so Dean can see that he's thinking along the same lines. A blink later, he's the doubtful ex-angel again, with a wrathful hatred of Crowley that's making him inflexible, irrational.

Dean's armed, too. His shoulder moves slightly away, the cooler evening air rushing between them just enough to indicate what he wants to do. He lets his own mask fall over his face. Pretending like he's desperate for a way to fix his brother.

"I will need to bring some security, though."

Dean looks back up at him.

"Oh. Sorry to interrupt the _eye magic_ ," Crowley grins. "But I have to watch my back around you two. Someone's coming with me."

Dean sizes up the demons hanging back and is distracted when Crowley smiles wider.

"Not them. Fluffy. Think you can make nice with _one widdle doggy_ for five minutes?" He pats his thigh and they hear a snuffling at his side, see the dirt move in puffs where it pads up to the line. "Just one dog, Dean," he teases, remembering every growl and overreaction Dean had to the wandering hounds in his offices. "She'll be on her best behavior."

Shit.

He can do this. He turns to Cas again to assure him: _I can do this_.

Cas's lips are tight. That's doubt and worry in his eyes. But, no. They can fucking do this. They can fucking do this _right now_.

"Or we can-"

"Fine. Alright," Dean agrees.

"Dean,-" Cas starts a token protest.

"No, Cas. Sam's bleeding out in there. We can't get to a hospital while these jokers are still on patrol. This is the fastest way."

"It's not worth it," Cas objects, but his eyes aren't in the argument. He's ready.

"He's my brother, Cas. We're going. Grab the shovel," and with that, he starts kicking a path down the stairs clear of goofer dust so the beast can come through with her master.

Cas huffs and gets the shovel they were using to post up the skins. He kicks away more of the dust and salt and goes to turn over some of the soil in the buried line.

"Gentlemen," Crowley looks back to his guard, "Stay here. Be back in two shakes. Keep on your best behavior." He looks back to Cas. "We're _guests_ here, after all." Smiles winningly.

Cas doesn't return the smile just lets him pass. He hefts the bag of salt into the hole he just dug and simply lets it sit there, then tosses the shovel out of reach.

The demons fall back a little, arms crossed and various wary and cocky expressions.

Against instinct, Dean turns his back on them.

Crowley waits at the bottom of the stairs and watches with glee as the hound huffs at Dean's shoes, sniffing him. Dean tries to look as uncomfortable as possible. "Go on," he says, holding the door open.

"Oh, no. Not with our darling Cas at my back. He'll go first," he motions.

So Cas tromps down and straight into the entrance and Crowley follows, whistling low for Fluffy. Dean glances up at the demon guard one last time before stepping in after the dog.

This is it. This is it.

He breathes in, out. Blinks for a too-long moment, focusing. Focusing on the sound and size of Fluffy. He knows, from how far she huffed up his leg, approximately how big she is. What kind of force it will take to bring her down. If he walks too close, bumps into her tail, he can tell her length and approximately where her head and neck are. He can visualize the soft spots without having the goggles on. It would take two seconds too long to whip them out of his pocket and get them steady over his eyes.

He has to remember demon things.

He has to remember the size and shape of the dogs from when he could see them with clear, black eyes. Has to remember the way they _stalk_ down narrow halls like this one.

And that's it. His hand is in his pocket as he's pulling the heavy door closed. His hand is around the knife as he's turning. The knife is leaving his pocket as the door creaks and slams shut completely. And in a fraction of a second he's stepping forward, too far, trying to knock his shins into the dog and find her shape. And far in front of him, Cas has slowed down a fraction, he's turning around to his left, concealing the way he's drawing his sword, and mumbling something about breaking a ward so Crowley can enter...

Time doesn't go that slow for more than a second.

Suddenly Dean's found the dog and he's trusting his hands to guide himself to her side, brushing nothing but one finger across the top of her. The growl starts low in her throat and cuts out quick into a short yelp as he _slams_ her against the opposite side of the hallway, gropes for her neck, and brings his hands up nearly to meet around it, only to push the blade into her flesh and pull back, towards himself, opening her throat, any further growls cutting off into a wet gurgle and splash.

And, ahead of him, Crowley's got no time at all to protest because Cas has turned around swinging the angel blade and running Crowley through with it so hard he pins him to the wall. Cas brings the blade out and slams it in again, the fiery electric burning, sparks flying from Crowley's mouth and illuminating his vessel's skeleton for a flickering few seconds.

Before he slumps over on Cas's hand.

On Castiel's blade.  
Dead.

The silence blankets the hallway. Like the volcanic blast that broke apart the shell of the demon inside of Dean and left his soul there, alone and glowing. Like that last moment of the ritual. Like that long, deaf minute.

The invisible dog bleeds to death on Dean's boots and Crowley slumps over Cas's fist, still keeping the blade buried in him.

Cas meets Dean's eyes for a moment. He looks away again to extricate the blade and slide it into Crowley's left side. Just one more stab. Just to be sure.

There's no protest from him. And Cas withdraws the blade and lets the body slump down the wall.

Dean fumbles his goggles out of his pocket and holds them over his eyes. He looks down, and it's dark in here, but he can see the lolling head of the hellhound, its front paw wrapped around his right foot, where it would have sliced into his tendon and taken him down if it had lived for one more breath.

Dean drops the goggles and steps out of its grasp. He stumbles to the wall behind him.

Cas is quick to get to his side. His hands automatically slide over Dean's right arm, gripping over where the bandage is under his clothes and pulling the knife from his death-grip and helping him drop it.

"Crowley's dead," he says, because the words are real.

"Cross that one off," Dean says, with a quiet, manic little laugh.

Cas closes in and kisses his face, then the corner of his mouth.

They don't hear the demons coming to pound on the door outside.

The whole thing might not have been loud enough for them to hear. Maybe not even the yelp of the hound.

Dean hooks his arm over Cas's shoulders because he needs that. Just for a minute. His hands trail black blood over his coat. It's trashed anyway, he has to tell himself. They've been rolling in dog guts since, like, noon.

Holy shit. It's done.

"I'm almost afraid if we leave the bodies here to go get Sam, he'll wake back up," Cas admits, resting his head against Dean's.

"We've only got a few minutes before they get suspicious outside," for some reason Dean can't stop whispering.

Cas kisses his mouth again.

"I can't--" he hauls Dean close. "Come here. Come sit down on the landing. Watch to make sure the bodies don't move."

"They won't _move_ ," Dean protests, letting Cas carry some of his suddenly exhausted weight.

"Dean, you have to admit that stranger things have happened. We've been waiting too long for this."

Dean reluctantly nods. He understands, really. Crowley has been their boogie man for a while.

They step over his slumped form, his splayed legs.

His eyes are still open but gazing down at his thigh, blank. That's creepy.

Cas just sits Dean directly on the ground at the end of the hall. He kisses Dean's head before he stands and then dips to kiss it again. "I'll be right back. I'm going to get Sam, he'll be right here. Just thirty seconds, Dean. Please, just keep an eye on them." He bids Dean to lean back against the railing and then books it downstairs.

Dean looks at dead dead dead dead Dead Crowley for a nice long time. The dead son of a bitch.

Fucking dead fuck.

It's still creepy but also satisfying. He'd watch this for thirty more minutes with a beer in hand and maybe a game on the radio.

Dead dead. Super dead. Cas-kill-'em-dead _dead_.

Fuck yeah.

He thinks he's smiling. He doesn't know if he can stop.

"Dean," Sam's voice is panicked and he hobbles up the stairs as fast as his injuries will allow. His eyes are flat on Dean, watching where he's slumped on the floor and making a visual assessment for damage. Tracking the black blood on his hands to his boots to the black boot prints on the ground to... wait for it...

Sam's crouched next to him with a hand on his shoulder and he falls to his knees. Dean watches Sam's face as he sees this wonderful, incredible dead thing.

"Holy shit," he says, voice thin. Suddenly the hand on Dean's shoulder seems to be more for Sam's support than Dean's.

"I know, right?!" Dean says, too happy to stop smiling.

"Holy shit," he says again.

Cas comes up to stand next to them, towering, but they don't mind.

"Holy shit," Sam says again.

Then he's up just enough to kinda crawl to the mouth of the hallway and next to Crowley's corpse.

He pauses with his hand in the air, disbelieving. But then he presses it forward to the pulse point.

He gets nothing. And looks joyful for it.

"H-hh-how?" he finally says, looking up at Cas.

"He wanted to come in to negotiate." He looks down to Dean and smiles. "You think anyone else wants to negotiate?" he actually winks at Dean, the cheeseball.

Dean is in love with that dork. It's probably obvious from the way his smile only grows and gets toothy.

"'Nother dead hellhound in the hall, too, though. Gonna be a hell of a time cleaning this up," Dean says.

"We've got a hose. We'll deal," Sam shrugs it off. "So what do we do with him?"

"His personal guard is still outside waiting for him," Dean says, glee fading a little. "I know 'em. Most of 'em. They're no slouches. They're actually. Well. Not great, but fast and mean. And we're plenty outnumbered."

"Been there before," Sam shrugs again.

"You're limping," Cas notes. "And I don't know if Dean's getting up again."

To prove him wrong, Dean takes a deep breath and starts shoving himself up from the floor. He uses the railing to lever himself up until Cas is at his side, taking him into his arms to stand straight.

He doesn't let himself stay slumped there, and tries to maneuver out of Cas's hold. Castiel keeps a steadying hand on his lower back, though, and that he allows.

Sam stands. "We could dump him out there and tell them to scatter. They'll know to run fast if they've got another regime change coming. They won't have much time for us."

"Unless one member of his guard is strong enough and smart enough to take his place. In which case they'll persist in attempting to wipe us out, first, and then proceed with us dead as a kind of... proof. Of their strength," Cas points out.

Sam puts his hands on his hips and thinks.

"We used the last of the demon bombs, uh. Before, right?" he asks Cas, side-stepping the issue of their hunt for Dean.

Cas nods.

They don't have many options. "We have a bullhorn or something? A speaker we can open the door and start playing an exorcism over it?"

"I don't think we have time to set up anything complicated," Cas notes. "It's been several minutes and Crowley did hint at his guard how long the negotiation would take. If we don't come out soon, they may be fully armed when we finally do."

Sam and Dean exchange a solid look. "Run and gun?" Dean asks.

"I still say we plunk the body down and tell 'em they know what's coming for them if they don't fuck off. We've still got a pile of dogs up there. They should know by now that we're not putting up with their shit. And," he smirks. "Guys. We just killed the King of Hell."

They're all smiling.  
They all know they're gonna do it.

They arm up, a salt gun for each. All three have blades, Sam with another of the spare angel swords.

Dean gets a second wind, a rush of energy at the prospect of the fight.

They have Cas lead out, because Crowley wanted him to lead in. He's the first through the door, Dean follows, and then Sam. With Crowley's dead dead dead body slung over his shoulder.

The faces of the demons fall to scowls as each Winchester rises from the stairwell. And then Sam dumps the body on the ground, hefted over the salt line.

"If you're going," he smirks, "be sure to take your trash with you."

One of the demons takes a cautious step forward and crouches to roll the body over.

Crowley's eyes are still wide and empty. The demon's eyes flash to black. He obviously sees nothing inside Crowley. When he looks up he's got his teeth bared and he starts an enraged growl. He bolts up and looks like he's gonna try to cross the line and lunge at Sam. He won't be able to but Dean pumps a shot of rocksalt into him anyway.

There's a scramble. One of the others lunges for the bag of salt that Cas dropped in the hole to move it. Cas steps up and fires his own gun but when one falls, another heaves his buddies out of the way and rushes to grab the bag. It seems like they've all decided to just follow orders and mindlessly _kill the Winchesters_ for their boss.

Dean keeps firing shots until the bag's out of place and the line is officially broken. They rush at Cas. It seems like _all of them_ \-- too many of them, at least. Fifteen, maybe eighteen.

It's grown slightly darker, the sun behind the horizon, and the light above the door has come on, but there's a sudden flash of light that seems to come from... nowhere that makes sense.

Comes from the back of the crowd of demons--

And suddenly the area's surrounded. Men and women in suits form a half-circle around the demons and slap hands over their heads, against their chests--

Angels. Angels burning the demons out.

Two demons at the center of the writhing mass of them have time to throw back their heads and howl out of their vessels, smoke whipping away, but none of the others are spared. As Dean switches to his knife to slice and dice, they all suddenly make short work of the demons.

Sam steps behind an angel, pulls a demon off her back and stabs it.

She pulls back, shocked, but after a moment of eye contact and understanding, they wade back in until there's not a leather-clad, black-eyed bastard left alive.

The three humans stand back, panting. The angels straighten and check each other and... just smile.

Cas takes the initiative to set his weapons aside and approach them. Among them is Hannah. Overjoyed to see him.

"Castiel," she greets.

He nods. "It's good to see you. Uh. Why. I mean. Thank you. For helping," he motions around them, and looks at the six other angels in turn.

They smile and Hannah nods to the closest. She wings back away. The others follow.

And the littered ground is clear of the bodies of the demons. Only the salt and shotgun shells remain.

The angels have wings again. It's been a while since Sam and Dean have heard that sound.

Sam looks to Dean, to kinda share the moment, wondering at it, but Dean's eyes don't leave Cas.

"Castiel, we're happy to help. And glad to see that Dean Winchester is recovered," she nods, happy for her brother, but clearly still not Dean's biggest fan.

Cas looks back to Dean and returns his attention to Hannah. "He is. I think that you should know," he nods over to the ground where Crowley was tossed, his body now gone. "The King of Hell is dead. There might be... well. Rival factions. Or new leaders attempting to rise."

Hannah nods. "We'll be on guard, of course. We also... heard," she raises an eyebrow. "Something about a cure. And we wonder... if that might not _also_ be useful. In our fight against demons."

Sam brightens. "We can tell you how, no problem."

Hannah smiles over at Sam. "It is much better to cure than kill if at all possible. If you'd share the information, we can put it into practice."

Cas has to step in again. "I'm sorry, but, Hannah,... how? Did you hear about it?"

She ducks her head a little. "Castiel, we heard. Don't be offended-- but we heard. Your confession. Your... who you mourn for. And the actions you regret. You confessed to purify yourself, to give Dean Winchester the cure. And we," she steadies herself and ticks up her chin. "We have forgiven you. We always will. And you're our brother... and... you would make a good leader," she insists. "You're a good _man_ , Castiel, but-

Cas has heard this before. He licks his lips and heads it off. "Thank you. That's more kindness than I deserve."

"We only wish we could have given you more," Hannah assures him, "but we're sure that Dean will heal completely in time."

Cas narrows his eyes and Dean knows they're thinking the same thing: exactly how much do the angels know about what went down?

"The Mark of Cain," Hannah readily admits. "We've been questioning Metatron for a while now. Attempting to undo some of the changes he set in motion with the tablets. He's not always cooperative, but we did find that if we endowed the final prayer of the ritual with a certain response, it would basically renew the one being blessed to previous conditions."

Dean gets it. He steps forward. "That's why the Mark is gone-"

"-But the other is back," Cas finishes.

"Factory reset," Dean says. Huh.

"As good as we could get it," Hannah agrees. "The Mark has been returned to its bearer and Dean is cleansed, as he was the first time he was resurrected."

Cas twigs to something then. As grateful as he is, he has to ask. "He's not always cooperative," he repeats her phrasing.

Hannah nods. "We're students of yours, though, Castiel. We can trick the truth out of him sometimes. Or make him think we already know and get him to admit the specifics."

Cas nods. "Good. I'm pleased."

Dean and Sam hear it, even if Hannah doesn't: that's not Cas's _pleased_ tone.

"Really, Castiel. I must... I have to ask one more time. Is there no way you'll return? We could work on recharging--"

"Hannah," he steps up and puts his hands to her shoulders. "Sister. Thank you." He pauses, and again, "Thank you. You've done more than I had imagined-"

" _Not_ more than you deserve," she interrupts to insist.

He grants her a smile at this. Repeats: "Thank you. But I'm going to settle here. And you know this isn't goodbye."

Her smile is soft. "No. We'd like to hear more about this cure. And you can call us. If you really need, you can call, Castiel. And after... we'll see you again."

Cas nods. Lets go and steps back.

"Hannah," he says.

"Brother," she returns. And flies away.

Dean is still intent on Cas until he turns around. His face has fallen. Not like he's sad, but like he's a little angry.

"Cas?"

Cas pulls his goggles out of his pocket and holds them to his eyes without putting them on.

"The dogs are gone as well."

"That's handy," Sam notes.

"Kinda wanted to torch Crowley myself, though," Dean grumps.

"Hey, I'm fine with avoiding clean-up duty. Though it's probably too much to hope they cleaned up the dog in the hall."

"Oh. Yo. We killed 'em," Dean motions between himself and Cas. "You don't get any credit unless you pull clean-up duty."

"Dude!" Sam motions to himself, his clawed-up body. "I'm still in bad shape over here. Clean it yourself."

Cas pushes past them and down into the bunker.

Sam and Dean watch him go, then look to each other, worried. Dean picks up their weapons and follows.

Sam almost trips on the hellhound body on the way in and snags Dean's goggles from his pocket, muttering about how the claws can maybe be ground up for something.

Dean steps over him and hauls the stuff inside.

Cas is waiting on the landing, leaning over the rail and looking over the main room, though clearly not seeing it. Staring, blank.

"Cas," Dean repeats, dropping the guns on the chess table. He comes up next to him and scoots in close. Drops his voice to say, "Hey?"

"Uncooperative, she said. She said that sometimes he's uncooperative. Dean, I don't know how much I believe her. I want to believe her but... the offhand way she said that..."

"You think the angels went up there, strapped their wings back on, and went right back to torturing," Dean clarifies.

"She was patient. She was good. She wanted change. She was willing to help humans. I just hope things haven't... slipped."

"She just said she'd like to cure demons, Cas. Maybe you're a good teacher. Maybe she really did learn to interrogate with some _slyness_ instead of some _slices_. Maybe..."

"Have a little faith?" Cas guesses.

"Shit. I donno," Dean shrugs.

"I'm really not cleaning this up!" Sam calls from the hall.

Dean rolls his eyes. "One more bag of blood and guts before bed I guess. Fuck, it's been a long day."

Sam is still making interested noises, muttering about needing a flashlight.

Cas doesn't comment. He turns to Dean and pulls him around until he can throw his arms around him and breathe into his neck.

Dean rubs his back and sighs.

«»

Sam isn't a moron, so they explain that the factory reset put Cas's handprint back on Dean's shoulder, cleaned up his scars and tattoo. He's interested, but in a limited way. There's no mystery or danger to it since they learned it was the angels' doing.

There's a reason they didn't mention it to Sam. It wasn't malicious or really _secretive_. It was just that Cas had been touching Dean since Dean got back. And they'd been close since the beginning. For years, now really.

The handprint feels like it has a different weight, now. Means something a little more.

Sam is backing off well before he finds the lines that Dean and Cas are sketching around their relationship. He's happy for them, but he will pull the hose back in and spray them down if they start making out in front of him.

Really. He's happy for them.

He's happy and he wants them to be happy. He wants a factory reset on the whole thing. He wants them to find out how to pull away and come together. To be healthy when they're separated and stronger when they're not.

Maybe keep hunting. Maybe not hunt. They'll work on that.

He promised Dean they'd work on it.

Dean, for his part, still doesn't think that far ahead.

Change! Yes. Okay. Good.

But in order to invest little hopes in little plans for the future, he kinda needs to know where Cas is aiming to go.

He finds Cas in the laundry room.

The machines are old. They were advanced for their time, but they are old now. Still sturdy.

Cas cycles a lot of laundry. He's wearing Dean's clothes but doesn't want to limit his selection. So he washes a lot. And Dean can find him in the laundry room, sitting on the floor, back against the humming machine, eyes closed, a look of concentration, meditation.

The floor is warm in here. Everything's warm in here.

He sits on the floor a lot more than he used to.

Cas sits on the floor, too. So when Dean's butt goes numb he can lay down and put his head in Castiel's lap.

The floor's fine every now and again.

Cas accepts the weight on his thigh without opening his eyes. He runs his fingers through Dean's hair.

He hasn't asked Cas a lot of things. Like, he still tries to turn his eyes over to black sometimes. Does Cas do that, but with angel-vision or whatever? Do souls look like what Dean saw when he'd look at them? What will Cas's personal heaven look like at the end of his human life? Will he meet Dean and Sam there?

He might ask these someday.

He doesn't babble like he used to.

He wants to hear Cas. So his ears are open and ready when Cas says, "I want to stay in the bunker. I understand it's a known location now. And that it might not be safe," he says, concerned.

"But we can ward it more. Put up stronger wards. Cement down salt lines. We can make it safer," Dean assures him. He's got all kinds of ideas. He thinks them up and Cas helps him execute. Or Cas comes up with ideas and Dean gets his back. They work like two hands. A free exchange of ideas and effort.

Dean was the brawn. Even as a demon he was expected to be a muscle. A hammer.

They're, neither of them, _just_ hammers. No matter if they were molded to the shape.

Sometimes he really can't feel that way with Sam. He's too proud of how smart Sam is to take credit for bright ideas and good plans. He is too often ready to be Sam's shield and depend on Sam to do the thinking.

It's not unfair. Maybe a little unfair to Sam. But what he's got with Sam and what he's got with Cas? Two different animals.

Dean will never stop being Sam's mother and father combined. He will always hold Sam above him and Sam will always wish he wouldn't. But he will.

And Dean and Cas will never let each other sink below one another. They are a sure hand up and they are linked at the shoulder. Tied beside, like docks and boats.

Weirdly, ex-angel, ex-demon. Partners.

Dean laughs into Cas's knee because that shaped up pretty well.

Defenders of the earth. Sharing socks. Sharing jeans.

After the clothes are washed, they go in the dryer. After Dean has had his time on Cas's lap, he sits up where Cas was and Cas drops into _his_ lap. He sits there looking far away, still.

"Anyplace you want, Cas. Whatever you wanna do," he wraps his arms around him.

"What about what you wanna do?"

"I wanna do you. I wanna drive a hundred miles tomorrow. I want to have Taco Tuesday in Texas. I wanna kick a witch's ass and show you episodes of Sponge Bob. But we can do that pretty much whenever."

"Except for Taco Tuesday, which, obviously must take place on Tuesday."

"When it's Tuesday here, isn't it already Wednesday someplace else?"

Cas seems to pull the quote out of his head. "It's five o'clock somewhere?"

"Yeah."

"That's very nearly an angelic mindset," Cas warns. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that."

"You're still thinking about Hannah," Dean realizes.

Cas nods. "I'm worried, yes. And I'm in no position to fix it. Unless I go back, it's out of my hands." He thinks for a minute. "What will happen if I go back?"

Dean shrugs. "I might be sad. I'll probably mope around and wait for you to come home."

"No you won't. I'm not going back. You know, on television shows-- situational comedies, especially-"

"Just 'sitcoms,' Cas."

He narrows his eyes, looking far off, recalling what he's seen. "On sitcoms. They always make these harsh statements about in-laws."

"Just jokes, Cas."

"They're mean-spirited. And I understand them better, now." He turns to Dean again. "I've bestowed in-law problems on you," he nods, frowning.

"Please stop watching sitcoms," Dean shakes his head.

"I never watched any sitcoms. Not personally, anyway."

Dean nods vaguely. "You're going to have to explain that to me sooner or later."

Cas worms his arm around Dean and closes his eyes, resting against his head. "I'm sorry about your in-laws."

Dean snorts a laugh and gets kissed for it.

He _laughs_ and he _gets kissed_.  
It's an okay day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herculaneum))


End file.
